


These Secrets In Me

by Femme (femmequixotic)



Series: Tales from the Special Branch [3]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Aftercare, Anal Sex, Angst, Aurors, Bisexual!Blaise, Blindfolds, Blow Jobs, Butt Plugs, Conspiracy, Dementor Rights, Dubious Sexual Ethics, DysFUNctional families, Enthusiastic Consent, Feels, Frottage, Gillyweed, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Jewish!Pansy, Kink Negotiation, LGBTQ and Het Side Pairings, Legilimency, Light Bondage, M/M, Magical House, Morally Complex Characters, Necromancy, Nipple Clamps, Occlumency, Original POC Muslim Character, Original Queer Female Character, POC Hermione, Penetrative Sex, Political Scandal, Post-war Trauma/Rebuilding, Praise Kink, Prisoner Rights, Public Sex, Secret Relationship, Self-Doubt, Sex Toys, Shady Business Dealings, Slytherins Being Slytherins, Spanking, Strong Friendships, Switch Draco, Switch Harry, mind healing, mothers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-04
Updated: 2017-08-06
Packaged: 2018-11-08 17:14:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 357,861
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11086218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/femmequixotic/pseuds/Femme
Summary: Auror Special Branch team seven-four-alpha--Sergeant Draco Malfoy, Constable Pansy Parkinson, and Constable Blaise Zabini led by their SIO, Inspector Harry Potter--must handle personal and political fallout from the implication of Ministry employees and Aurors in the scandal around escaped Death Eaters and a Dementor uprising at Azkaban. On top of that, their original target, Antonin Dolohov, is in the wind.With all the ruckus, it's a good thing they have help from Unspeakable Hermione Granger, American Unspeakable, Legilimens, and Harry's recent ex, Jake Durant, Blaise's legendary necromancer grandfather, Barachiel Dee, and his potions expert mother, Olivia Zabini. What could possibly go wrong with an army of best friends, ex-lovers, and family? Especially when you add the strong-willed Parkinson clan to the mix.Meanwhile, troubling new leads arise, taking Our Team in a surprising direction.And Draco, still hiding his relationship with his SIO from the upper echelons of the Auror force, is definitely not falling in love with Harry Potter along the way. Not at all. Don't be ridiculous.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So here we go with Book Two of the [Tales from the Special Branch series.](http://archiveofourown.org/series/661862) If you haven't read the first parts of the series, you should start there, since this story builds upon them, and you'll probably be wondering WTF is going on. :D
> 
> For those of you who've been following along, I can't believe it's already June third! That went so quickly! As always, thank you to noeon and sassy_cissa for continuing to be willing to beta these novels for me! I owe you both a million kisses!
> 
> Also thank you to everyone who commented to [Can't Get You Out of My Head](http://archiveofourown.org/works/9826184) and [Lost In Your Arms](http://archiveofourown.org/works/10323485/chapters/22822229) here and on Tumblr--I'm still taking asks in my Tumblr inbox, if you're curious! And I will get back to answering LIYA comments ASAP--I've just wanted to make sure I'd meet this deadline for you all! 
> 
> I hope you enjoy this first chapter as much as I've enjoyed spending time with Our Team; I'm throwing myself into the chapter two first thing in the morning! :D

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Midsummer is celebrated--to varying degrees of success and enjoyment, Jake and Barachiel Dee go to Azkaban, and Draco's mother is not driving him crazy. Why would you think that? It's normal for a bereaved mother to live with her adult son while his father's in custody. Especially after he put him there.
> 
> Chapter warnings for alcohol abuse by a side character, abusive language of a father to a son, ethical dilemmas around end of life for disembodied souls, reference to children being raised by house elves, and the usual failure to communicate effectively by either Harry or Draco. But that last one's a given, isn't it?

Fuck, but Draco doesn't think he'll ever get used to the sight of a naked Harry Potter rising up over him, shoulders tight, arms shaking, his narrow hips settled between Draco's thighs, his thick prick hard and hot and heavy against Draco's stomach.

Soft, fragrant summer grass is crushed beneath Draco's shoulders as he writhes up to meet Potter's slow, rolling thrust with one of his own; the blanket they'd used for their picnic is scrunched beneath Draco's hips. His foot slides against the soft wool. 

"Circe," Draco says when Potter's cock drags across his. 

Somewhere in the distance a bird trills from the cool shadows of a tree branch. It's warm in the meadow, a bit too warm, even, and Draco's going to regret this later when his pale skin's red and angry and blistered. At the moment, he doesn't care. The midsummer sun shines brightly behind Potter's messy halo of hair, and he looks like a bloody pagan fertility god, small flowers and bits of twig caught in his mass of dark curls, his golden skin slick with sweat.

"God, you're amazing," Potter gasps out, grinding the hard line of his cock into Draco's belly. He leans down; his mouth brushes Draco's, soft and gentle until Draco opens up to him, his teeth pulling at Potter's bottom lip. Draco doesn't really know how they ended up here in this quiet, secluded meadow; Potter'd just pulled him from the incident room at lunch, telling him they were going out. It'd only been the two of them; Pansy's been holed up in her lab for days, sifting through evidence, and Blaise had already headed out for a late Friday pub lunch with a few Aurors who'd promised him a drink after all he'd gone through. To be honest, Draco'd thought Potter had meant a sandwich from Pret, but Potter'd Apparated them out into the middle of the Cotswolds countryside where Kreacher'd been waiting with a picnic spread. A Midsummer Eve celebration, Potter'd called it. Bollocks on that. It was clearly just a chance for sex al fresco, not that Draco's complaining. There's something raw and primal about lying in the middle of a field of wildflowers, his clothes shucked to one side, the warmth of the sun beating down on them as their bodies rut against each other. 

Thank Circe Kreacher'd gone grumbling back to Grimmauld Place before Potter had opened the bottle of wine. It's not that Draco hasn't been caught in intimate situations by house elves before. He'd just rather not put on a show. 

Draco reaches up to grab the broad, hard stretch of Potter's shoulders, pulling him closer, his fingernails digging into Potter's back. He loves the feel of Potter against him, all smooth skin and firm muscles. It's only been ten days or so since Robards had warned him off sleeping with Potter; Draco's spent half those nights in Potter's bed. 

The whole damned thing's madness, Draco knows. But he can't walk away from Potter. Not right now. Not when every stretch of his body craves Potter's touch, longs to have Potter buried deep inside of him. Potter's mouth captures Draco's again in a long, slow kiss, his tongue pressing against Draco's, making him shudder with want.

It's almost too much. Draco writhes beneath Potter again, his whole body feeling as if it's on fire. Draco turns his head, breaking the kiss, and Potter makes a small, soft noise of protest. Fuck, Draco thinks, his cock fattening even more at the sound. He's lost to this. To Potter. 

His ragged breaths stir the soft curls at Potter's temple. Draco doesn't even give a fuck if some rambler wanders through the field. The whole bloody Auror force could be watching right now and Draco wouldn't change a damned thing. 

Except...

Draco's fingers trail down Potter's back, dragging across the nubs of Potter's spine. He can feel Potter tense and shiver beneath his touch. "Let me ride you," he whispers into Potter's ear.

Potter swears, his teeth nipping at Draco's jaw. "You want that?" His lips form the words against Draco's throat; they rumble across Draco's shivery skin. 

Oh, Draco does. "Very much so." His thumbs stroke the swell of Potter's arse, dip into the deep crease there. "Wouldn't you like to see me on you? Watch me spread my legs for you and take that lovely prick of yours into my arse?"

Potter pulls back, looking at him with those bright eyes. His glasses are gone, tucked away in the pocket of his once pristine white dress shirt. It's rumpled and grass-stained now, lying at the edge of the blue wool blanket. "Jesus, what you do to me, Malfoy." He shifts, nudging Draco's legs wider, working a thigh up against Draco's bollocks. Draco groans at the pressure. His prick is swollen and red against his belly, the tip already damp. He wants Potter inside of him so goddamned badly he can barely breathe. 

When Potter's strong arm slips beneath Draco's back, Draco arches his shoulders. Before Draco can take a breath, he's flipped over, his hair falling into his face as he's straddling Potter's hips, with Potter on his back.

"You're right," Potter says, his eyes wide and hair messed. "This is a brilliant view as well." In the vivid midsummer green of the grass and trees he looks practically fey, a golden-brown sprite, Puck himself incarnate in the growing magic of the solstice. 

Draco smoothes his hands up Potter's chest, letting his thumbs circle lightly against Potter's nipples. "Obviously," he says and his hands slip back, fingers trailing along Potter's belly, then up over his own thighs. He shifts on his knees, the blanket rough against his skin. Potter watches as Draco lets one hand slide over his prick, pulling back the already stretched foreskin further so Potter can see the swollen wet head of Draco's cock. Draco knows what turns Potter on, knows just how to arch himself, to press his hips forward so the shaft of his prick slips through his loosely clenched fist. 

"Fuck," Potter says, and he reaches for Draco's hips. 

Draco bats his hands away. "Not yet." He smoothes his thumb over his leaking slit, hissing as he presses the tip in. It drives Potter wild, he knows, to see him do this. Potter's hands catch Draco's thighs, his fingers digging into to his skin. Draco squeezes his prick a bit tighter, keeps his foreskin pulled back. His slit widens just a bit, and Potter swallows, his eyes fixed on Draco's hand. "More?" Draco asks, and Potter just nods. 

It feels incredible to work the pad of his finger into his slit, making tiny circles across the wet skin. Draco loves touching himself like this, with Potter watching him. He feels wild and free, and the warmth of the sun on his back, the faint breeze that ruffles his hair only make him harder. He'd never known before today that he had a bloody kink for sex outside. Then again, sex with Potter's making him entirely reevaluate every sexual limit he'd thought he had. Circe, but there's almost nothing he wouldn't do with Potter, he thinks. Or for him.

And then Draco lets his other hand stroke along his shaft, smoothing over his foreskin as Draco fucks his slit with his finger, pushing the tip in then pulling it back out. His thighs are shaking, and he can feel a drop of sweat roll down the nape of his neck, over the curve of his back. 

Potter's fingers tense on Draco's legs, pushing them wider. "God," Potter chokes out. He reaches over, cups Draco's bollocks in one hand. He rolls them between his fingers, circling his thumb over the soft fuzz, nearly making Draco groan with want. "You have the best fucking prick--"

"Do I?" Draco's breathing hard. It's taking everything he has not to shoot spunk across Potter's stomach. He pulls his finger away from his aching slit; the head of his prick's slick and ruddy in his hand. 

"Yeah," Potter says. "Bloody perfect, it is." His voice is rough. He catches Draco's hand and pulls it to his lips, licking away the wetness on Draco's fingertip before sucking it into his mouth. Draco has to close his eyes for a moment, almost overcome by sensation. His finger pops out from between Potter's lips, and Draco looks down at him. Potter gives him a lazy smile. "Remind me to hold you down and suck you senseless later."

The thought of Potter restraining him whilst his mouth moves down Draco's cock makes Draco's hips jerk. He flushes and pulls his hand back. "Berk."

Potter just laughs, and he slaps his hand out against the blanket until his fingers hit the phial of lube at the edge. He picks it up and hands it over, his fingers brushing against Draco's knuckles. "I thought you wanted to ride my cock?"

"I'm reconsidering," Draco says, but there's no heat to his words. He wants to impale himself on Potter's fat prick, wants to tighten himself around Potter until Potter's breathless and begging. The past few weeks have taught him what Potter likes, after all. 

Draco uncaps the phial and pours a handful of lube into his palm. Potter looks as if he's about to say something, but he catches himself as Draco reaches back and slicks up his arse, through the crease, then pressing a finger into his hole. He bites his lip at the sensation. He loves the fact that Potter's watching him, and he spreads his thighs wider, holding himself up with one hand as the other fucks his hole, one finger, then another twisting in. Draco's prick is hard and bobbing against his stomach; he's never been one to flag too much at the press of anything into his arse. He loves being fucked, loves fucking, loves anything that has to do with Potter's cock being anywhere near his damned body. 

"Fuck," Potter says again, his voice a bit breathy. "Come on, Malfoy. Let me watch you shag yourself." He shifts beneath Draco, his legs pushing against the blanket, restless. "That brilliant arse of yours can take another fucking finger. I know." 

He can. Draco presses a third finger into himself. He's tilted backwards, barely held up, his fingers working deeper into his body as Potter grips his thighs. He wonders for a moment if he could come from this, the amazing feel of his fingers pulling his arsehole wider, slick and hot against his skin, Potter's eyes fixed on the steady bob of Draco's prick with each twist of his fingers. Circe, but this is what Potter does to him, makes him want to be spread open, makes him want to be fucked until he can't feel anything but the pull and push of Potter's prick deep inside of him, sending him to the heights of pleasure. 

Draco's shaking when he pulls his fingers free. They slide from his arse with a wet pop, and then Draco reaches for Potter's heavy cock, lying in front of him, thick and red and twitching against Potter's hip. A bead of wetness emerges as Draco slickly gathers Potter's foreskin, rolling his grip up and then smoothing a palm over the swollen head. He does this a few times just to watch Potter gradually go incoherent with pleasure.

"Malfoy," Potter says, voice thick, head arched back against the grass, eyes shut. "You'd better start soon or else." He breaks off with a groan, his teeth digging into his bottom lip. "Shit." His fingers tense on Draco's thighs, 

"Or else what Potter?" Draco says, gripping the base of Potter's cock and dragging his hand up in a long, delicious pull. Merlin, the way Potter's prick feels in his hand, big and wide and hefty. Draco wants to shove it up his arsehole, to roll his hips forward, taking Potter as deep into his body as he can.

"Please," Potter says. His voice is rough. Pleading. 

Draco relents. He goes up on his knees, carefully positioning himself over Potter's erection. He realises that someone could come into the field at any moment, could see them shagging in the grass and the wildflowers, and somehow this only makes Draco harder. He wants Potter so damned much. It frightens him sometimes, this staggering need he has for Potter's body. It can't be healthy. He knows it's not. He's putting everything on the line for this, for the pleasure his body feels when it's pressed against Potter's. He's lost his bloody mind. Right now, he doesn't give a damn.

"Hold still," Draco warns, and Potter drops his hands to his sides.

When Draco presses the slick, swollen tip of Potter's cock against his entrance, it slides into him easily. Then Draco's inner muscles tense, and he pauses, shifting carefully, balancing over Potter. There's a twig or a rock under his left knee digging into his kneecap, but he can't lose his concentration--the slight twinge keeps him focussed. He bites his lower lip, his right hand behind him, wrapped around Potter's girth. It's always tricky at the start, and Potter is holding his breath, watching him with a stunned expression on his face.

"Malfoy," he says, and he closes his eyes. 

Draco pushes against the intruding length of Potter's prick, and he sinks a bit further down. His body protests; he tenses his thighs. Another drop of sweat runs down his spine, but he can't brush it off. He arches his back a little bit more to allow for a better angle and leans a bit forward, then back again. He's rewarded with another two or so inches of Potter's cock slotting home deep within him. It burns slightly, and Draco breathes out against the discomfort of being stretched open. The sun is hot overhead; the afternoon light spilling across the meadow is sleepy and golden. Potter's chewing at his lip, but staying perfectly still otherwise, his muscles tensed, his prick swollen and thick and hard inside Draco. Draco knows this will get easier soon--so very, very soon--but he has to concentrate. 

"One more moment." Draco relaxes his body, taking a breath, letting it out, not forcing anything. "Don't you dare bloody move." Draco doesn't know what he'll do if Potter doesn't listen. The discomfort's fading now that Potter's solidly inside Draco's arse, and it's just a matter of time before Draco can take him all the way. He breathes, he lets go, and then pushes himself, sinking further, much further, almost there now. Draco lets his hand come back to his thigh, no longer needing to hold Potter's prick steady.

Potter's cheeks are flushed, and his gaze is starting to unfocus. "Fuck," he says, his voice rough. "You feel incredible, you know. I think I could die happy with you on my cock like this."

"I'd rather you come, instead," Draco says, rocking his hips back, then forward again to achieve the best angle on Potter's prick. He settles his hands on Potter's hips and hisses at the shift of Potter inside of him. "Can you bring your knees up?"

Potter's knees slide up, his thighs solid, giving Draco a seat to lean against. "Better?"

"Not bad." Draco tightens then loosens his body, causing Potter to swear and grab Draco's hips, his fingers digging into Draco's skin. Draco's hair falls in his face as he leans forward. He's almost there. He rises up a little, widens his thighs, then lets himself slide down, feeling gravity help him sink down to Potter's hipbones. When he feels his arse flush against Potter's skin, he groans, his chest heaving with every breath. Potter's nearly splitting him in two; Draco's prick's softened just a little, but now that he's settled on Potter's cock, it's starting to fatten up again. He feels phenomenal.

"Tell me when I can move," Potter raises a hand up to stroke Draco's cheek. His fingers are light against Draco's skin.

"Not yet," Draco says, his voice a bit sharp. He turns his head, presses his lips to Potter's fingertips, then nips at the pad of Potter's thumb. "I mean it, Potter. You wouldn't want me to slide off you and leave you like this, would you?"

"You bloody well wouldn't." Potter groans and tries to keep still. He's terrible at it; his body shifts and tenses beneath Draco's thighs. "You like my cock too damned much."

"Do I?" Draco smiles, body clenching, releasing around Potter's prick; Potter bites his lip at the sensation, his fingers now pressing into the grass and the edge of the blanket. Potter's not wrong. Draco's terribly fond of Potter's prick. Not to mention, he loves being the one in control, driving Potter mad with lust. It surprises him how much Potter gets turned on by being ordered about like this. 

Potter licks his lips. "Yeah," he says more than a bit breathlessly. "You fucking worship it--" He breaks off in a gasp as Draco's arse slips a bit further down his cock. "Jesus." Potter's feet slide over the blanket, his knees pushing against Draco's arse as Draco puts his hands on Potter's chest, leans a bit forward. It's a brilliant movement, settling Potter's prick deeper inside Draco, and Draco's body thrums with excitement. Circe, but he loves fucking Potter. He draws in a slow breath.

"Shut up and put your fucking hands on me, you arsehole," Draco says. His voice only wobbles slightly. He raises up, just enough to feel the drag of Potter's prick across the rim of his hole. He shudders at the delicious sensation. 

Potter grips Draco's waist, then slides his wide hands over Draco's narrow, sharp-boned hips. His fingers dig into Draco's arse, spreading his cheeks a bit further, and Draco slides back down onto Potter's prick again.

"Careful," Draco snaps. The burn subsides after a moment, and Draco braces himself on one hand, gently tugging his cock with the other. The pleasure makes his body relax. He rolls his hips just enough to make Potter's eyes flutter shut. Circe, but what he can do to Potter is a bloody aphrodisiac. 

"You're so fucking gorgeous," Potter says, voice warm and rough. "You know?" Draco hates that Potter can make him feel flustered with that one statement. Draco's heard it before from men he's fucked, but no one other than Potter has made him actually believe it. And yet, right now, right here, he feels more seductive and provocative than he ever has, spitted on Potter's cock like this, knees spread wide. He wants Potter to watch him, to see his prick going into Draco, to feel Draco's body tighten and shudder around him. Fuck, Draco thinks. Potter has that stupid crooked smile on his face, the one that gets Draco every time, and his hands smooth over Draco's arse, cupping it as he shifts his thighs against Draco's. "Christ, Malfoy, I can't believe how good you feel riding me."

"I haven't really started yet, you wanton brute," Draco points out, but his voice is nowhere as harsh as his words. "Hold on." Draco shifts his hips up, then down, and goes a bit further the next time. He spreads his knees even wider, pressing them into the grass and the wadded up blanket, and he's rewarded with a jolt of pleasure through his body that draws out a sharp gasp. "Fuck," he says.

Potter takes that as his cue to start rocking gently, getting his heels under him and thrusting with his legs. Draco arches his shoulders back, his hands clenching at Potter's calves, his arse impossibly stretched open as he rides Potter harder, the stirrings of pleasure starting to expand throughout his body, twisting through his thighs, up over his belly. He loves being open like this, exposed, anchored only by Potter to the earth. Draco pulls himself further up Potter's prick, then presses back down, and Potter moans again, raw and deep. His face is flushed and sweaty; he looks a bit wrecked already. But Draco isn't done with him yet.

"Come on, Potter. You can do better than that. It's sodding Midsummer. Won't there be a failure of the harvest or something if you don't fuck me properly?" Draco's sure he made that up but sometimes, with Potter, here in the fields, he's not sure that it's not true. Tendrils of magic are already creeping up his body from where he and Potter are joined. He's not sure what it is, but sometimes he's certain he can sense Potter's magical aura when they fuck, twisting up around him, almost as if it's trying to tie his magic to Potter's. It's always a bit unnerving if he thinks about it, so he tries not to. 

It's definitely not something he's ever experienced before. Definitely never with Nicholas, that's for bloody certain.

"That's fucking Beltane, you twit." Potter curls up, the muscles across his stomach straining, his fingers digging into the swell of Draco's arse, pulling his cheeks apart, whilst he rocks his prick into Draco. "Don't worry, though," he says through a gasp. "I'll give you a proper shag, won't I?" He falls back against the crumpled grass, his hands sliding over Draco's sweaty thighs, pushing them wider. "Goddamn it, let me see you, Malfoy. I want to watch my cock going into that perfect fucking arse of yours."

And at that Draco's riding Potter in earnest, his body pumping up and down and up and then down again whilst Potter chases him with rough thrusts of his hips. Draco arches back against Potter's raised knees, one hand on his swollen prick, the other pinching his nipple, Potter swearing at him to roll it between his fingers, to make it harder for Christ's sake. Draco's thighs shake, and he can feel the soft slap of Potter's bollocks against his arse. They reach a slow, building rhythm that Draco feels deep in his body, an easy, full coupling that makes Draco's whole being sing with joy. 

Fucking's just so brilliant with Potter, Draco thinks. They always find the right pace for each other, and there's never any doubt that both of them will enjoy the moment, will find their pleasure in the slick, heated slide of their bodies together. It frightens him almost how well they fit together, how simple it is to fuck Potter. Even more so in recent days. Since that night Draco had shown up on Potter's doorstep, sex has shifted for them, become slower, more careful, less frantic in a way. Draco wonders sometimes if it's his quiet defiance of Robards' order that's changed this for him. If he's made a choice to put Potter first, above his own career, as the still-unfinished transfer papers on his kitchen island he suspects underscore. Sometimes when he lies with Potter, their bodies tangled together, Draco can even convince himself what they have isn't just a brilliant fuck every few days between them, that it's something a bit more. Something deeper. Meaningful. Foolish of him, perhaps. He knows what he's signed up for here. He's an idiot for expecting anything else.

After all, Potter's for fucking. Not for a relationship. He's made that bloody clear.

Potter surprises Draco by pulling him forward, then curling up to kiss him by abdominal strength alone, Draco sprawled over him. He flashes a grin at Draco that's bright and happy. "Hi."

"Wanker," Draco says, but they kiss slowly, all mouth and tongue and teeth in a way that makes Draco's heart ache. He wants more from Potter, he knows that, deep down inside. But if this is all Potter can give him, Draco will take it. He needs Potter like this, can't imagine walking away. Merlin, he really is a fool.

Draco shifts again, settles on his knees, bending over Potter. It's a more intimate position, Draco making little shallow motions to drop and rise on Potter's cock. Potter's hands are still cupping his arse. His world's reduced to Potter, the meadow and the woods surrounding it fading into the background. Draco pulls back, looking down at Potter and his soft face, his rumpled black hair, his unfocussed gaze. He's beautiful, and Draco can't bear to imagine what it's going to be like when Potter tires of whatever this is between them. Draco's ruined for any other man, he thinks. 

Potter kisses Draco again, nipping at his lip. "I love doing this with you."

And Draco's heart stutters because he thought for a moment Potter was going to say three words, not six, and, whatever he might think he wants, he wasn't--isn't--ready for that. He stills, then catches Potter's mouth with his, rolling his hips backwards, taking Potter's prick deeper into him.

"Circe, I do too," Draco murmurs against Potter's lips, and it's the honest truth. His prick is caught between them, leaking and hard, and Potter's very close as well if the tension around his mouth is any gauge. He's trying to make it last, Draco thinks, and it pleases him that he now knows Potter's physical tells so well. He threads his fingers between Potter's, pulling Potter's hands up over his head. "What I want to know, though, is whether or not you're going to fuck me like I want you to."

"Yeah?" Potter says against Draco's jaw. "Looking for a good bumming, Malfoy?"

Draco shivers as Potter's teeth nip down his throat. "I keep getting promised--"

He breaks off with a soft cry as Potter's hips start pumping into him, nearly knocking him forward, and Draco thanks all of the training sessions ever for Potter's apparently tireless strength. Draco lets himself still, opening to Potter, kissing him whilst Potter's prick slams into his arse, his bollocks slapping against Draco's skin. Draco floats higher and higher, pinned to Potter as his pleasure builds. He's so into the rhythm of it that it's almost shocking when his body tenses, shudders. He presses his fingers into Potter's, their hands digging into the soft, warm earth, and Draco cries out as his spunk spatters across Potter's stomach, smearing slickly over their skin with each thrust of Potter's prick, each roll of his hips that rocks Draco's whole body. The clench of his arse around Potter is astonishingly, brilliantly, spectacularly good, and Potter groans, gripping Draco's hips and thrusting, hard, for a moment before he, too, tips over the edge into a shuddering shout. Draco can feel Potter's spunk in him as he catches Potter's mouth with his, swallowing his breathy cry. 

It's all perfectly aligned somehow, the warmth, the sun, Potter, and Draco can't imagine ringing in Midsummer any other way.

He slumps over Potter, his body twitching, his skin prickling and sweaty, his limbs heavy and languid. Potter's face is still flushed, his eyes glassy. They gasp heavily together in the honeyed, grassy summer air.

"Can you go again?" Potter asks, his voice rough in his throat. "I just--" He breaks off, his fingers still twined in Draco's. "Christ, I can't get enough of you." Potter is still half-hard in Draco, and Draco's arse is loose and not at all protesting the stretch. He'll feel it tomorrow, but for right now, he wants everything that Potter can give him. Potter looks up at him, breathing hard. "This is fucking mental, yeah?" He laughs and shifts beneath Draco. "I've never been this bloody insatiable."

"I'll take that as a compliment," Draco says. He rolls his hips back, and he can feel Potter start to harden in him again. "Fuck, you're serious."

Potter raises an eyebrow. "What part of I can't get enough of your damned arse do you not understand, Malfoy? It's like I'm fucking sixteen again, shooting off in the bloody prefect's bathroom." 

"You do have a thing for shower sex," Draco says with a small laugh. Potter pulls a hand free and smacks it against Draco's arse, and Draco only just manages to hide the shiver that goes through him. He can't, however, stop the twitch of his cock, and Potter's smile widens. "Stop it," Draco says.

Potter just rubs his hand over the still stinging spot on Draco's arse. "We'll try that later, yeah?"

"Fuck you," Draco says, but he doesn't mean it and Potter knows that. They catch their breath, connected, bodies melded together. Draco almost can't distinguish where his body stops and Potter's begins. They're a breathing, organic mass, shifting, moving, lying still, then starting to move again. Draco lets Potter kiss him slowly, then he turns his head, his mouth sucking and biting along Potter's throat. He loves marking Potter, nipping small purplish bruises across Potter's skin, some of which Potter's starting to leave be, which makes Draco wild with lust when he sees them beneath Potter's collar at work. It's all he can do sometimes not to slam Potter's door closed and drop to his knees, jerking Potter's flies open. The thought sends a slow shiver through him. He wants to do that so badly, wants Potter to bend him over his desk again, to shag Draco until he's wrecked and ruined, begging for anything, everything Potter will do to him. "Merlin," Draco says against Potter's skin. "How the fuck can I want you so much?"

Potter doesn't answer; he just rolls Draco over gently, still inside of him and rucks Draco's knees up. Draco's hip twinges, but he lets Potter pin him like this, his bent knees splayed over Potter's forearms, Potter's hips pushing forward, his cock still deep in Draco's arse. Draco stretches his arms overhead, touching the grass. He'll be sunburnt and in pain for the rest of the weekend, and his mother will upbraid him for not caring for his skin, but there's something brilliantly hedonistic about Potter taking him again in the middle of the meadow, Draco's own spunk still smeared sticky across his hip. 

Potter's thrusts grow deeper, and Draco can't think, particularly when Potter's fingers close tight around Draco's prick, tugging him in a rhythm matching the push of his hips. It's flawless. Harry Potter may be an irritating git, but honestly, he's a fucking god in bed. Or in a field, Draco thinks. Or where-the-bloody-fuck-ever they happen to slake their thirst for each other.

Draco honestly doesn't know if he can come again, but then Potter is leaning over him, torso gleaming with sweat, and Draco's goading Potter on, begging him to take him, harder, faster-- _goddamn it, Potter, if you're going to fuck me, then fuck me properly, you tosser_ \--and Potter's pressing Draco's knees into his chest, and the angle is impossibly deep until Draco feels like he's on fire, every nerve ending alight from letting Potter into his body, powerful and vulnerable at the same time. 

When Draco finally shatters, he's trembling with the intensity of it, clinging to Potter as wave after wave of pleasure shipwrecks his soul. And then Potter falls onto him with a shuddering _Malfoy_ , his own body tense and tight and taut as his spunk slips out of Draco's hole, slick against the curve of Draco's arse. 

Afterwards, Draco's quiet, not quite able to form sentences. Potter cleans them off with a spell, holding Draco close. Draco slumps into Potter's arms, all energy and resistance spent, and he thinks about how nice it would be to do this with Potter in his own bed. All the time, their bodies wrapped around each other. Falling asleep, spent and sated, waking up to a slow, gentle fuck.

But he can't think like that, can he? This is Potter and they're not that sort. They're in the middle of a fucking field, hiding out from everyone--his mother, Robards, Kreacher and that damned lovesick house. Still, Draco's always left wanting more. 

Potter's hand settles on Draco's hip. "All right?" he asks, and Draco nods. He's not, but he can pretend he is, at least enough to fool Potter. 

They lie still for a long moment. The sky's a deep, bright blue, a few soft white clouds drifting past. The grass smells sweet and fresh beneath them, with just a faint whiff of loamy earth. A bumblebee buzzes past, small and yellow, dipping over Draco's shoulder before flying away. 

Draco looks over at Potter. His eyes are closed; his lashes are dark and thick. Draco wants to follow the smooth line of Potter's nose with his fingertip, wants to drag it across the full pout of Potter's lips, over the faint curve of Potter's jaw. He's beautiful, Draco thinks. Not like Draco with his sharp, jutting angles. Potter's square and solid. A man's man, _Witch Weekly_ once called him, in that terribly heterosexual way of theirs, not knowing the rather queer--in all senses of the word--truth of that statement, and Draco will never admit to anyone he'd read that ridiculous article. Still, he agrees with it. He doesn't understand what Potter sees in him, why Potter wants to fuck him the way he does. Frankly, Draco's half-certain Potter's off his bloody nut. 

"You're staring at me," Potter says, and he turns his head, his eyes fluttering open. He smiles at Draco. "I can always tell."

Draco flicks two fingers at him, oddly embarrassed at being caught. "I wasn't."

Potter catches Draco's hand and kisses his knuckles. "Liar." He sits up, wincing a bit. There's bits of grass and wildflowers in the the back of his hair. "Any plans for Midsummer Eve?"

"Not really." Draco watches Potter reach for their clothes. The remnants of their picnic are spread around them, two wine glasses, thick pottery plates with bits of sandwich and cheese and raspberries left on them, a wicker hamper with the opened bottle of wine sticking out from it. Draco pulls the bottle free and lifts it to his mouth, swallowing the last dregs of the cabernet. "You?"

"There's a dinner at the Burrow," Potter says, handing Draco his shirt. Draco draws it on, flinching a bit at the drag of the blue cotton across his sun-reddened skin. "I told Molly I'd be there."

Draco feels a bit disappointed. He'd thought perhaps Potter would take him back to Grimmauld Place for the night. He doesn't want to go back to his flat and his mother. As much as he loves her, as much as he wants her staying with him, as much as he knows she needs him close by, there are reasons he'd moved out of the Manor, and not all of them involved his estrangement from his father. "Oh," he says, and he looks away, buttoning the cuffs of his shirt. 

Potter's on his feet, drawing on his trousers. "I didn't think you'd want to go," he says, giving Draco a curious look. "I mean, I could ask Molly--"

"No," Draco says sharply. He doesn't want to be in public with Potter. Not with Robards' warning still ringing in the back of his mind. He knows he should tell Potter about it. He can't. He doesn't want Potter to walk away from this--from _him_ \--out of some stupidly misguided attempt to save Draco's sergeant's bars. Draco doesn't think he could bear it right now. "Don't be ridiculous." 

Potter doesn't say anything at first; he just gives Draco a long, careful look. "All right." 

Draco feels a right fool. "Mother will be expecting me anyway," he says. She won't, not really. She's aware of where Draco's been spending his nights as of late, but she hasn't really said anything about it, other than an occasional pointed comment or two. Draco doesn't know whether to be offended or relieved. Whatever words of support his mother's given him about being bent, Draco still thinks she's a bit unsettled by the idea of her son being sexually active with another man. Particularly Potter. He doesn't really blame her. He'd rather not think of her in that way either. There are certain lines mothers and sons should never cross.

"Malfoy," Potter says, but Draco's already on his feet, tugging his trousers up his hips and buttoning them. 

"Should I head back to the Ministry?" Draco asks, perhaps a bit too brightly. "I've those files that Granger sent over to go through still."

Potter frowns at him. "You don't have to go back to work," he says. "It's Midsummer. Everyone will have bunged off by now anyway." 

He sounds annoyed. Draco doesn't care. Potter never likes the reminders that Draco technically works for him; Draco will admit to falling back on them whenever he wants to irritate Potter. Which is probably more than he should. He thinks back to the transfer paperwork, still sitting in the kitchen post basket back in his flat. He hasn't had the nerve to finish filling it out. Not yet, at least. All of this has been too much between him and Potter lately, and Draco's done what he always does when he's uncomfortable: he's played ostrich, pretending he doesn't have to make a decision yet. He doesn't know how much longer he can drag it out, to be honest. The longer he waits, the harder the decision he knows he should make--he _needs_ to make--is going to be.

Draco eyes Potter. His shirt's still open, and the top button of his trousers is undone. Draco hates that he wants nothing more than to drop to his knees and mouth the swell of Potter's prick through the soft twill. He looks away. "I'll see you Monday then."

He picks up his shoes, but Potter catches his hand, pulls him close. "Or sooner." He kisses Draco, a slow, soft brush of their lips together. "I'll owl you?"

"No." Draco steps back, his stomach twisting. He doesn't want to be at Potter's beck and call. He may be an easy pull for Potter, a slag who's good for a quick tumble, but he's at least a little self-respect. "I need to spend some time with Mother."

A flash of something--disappointment? Irritation? Draco can't decide--flits across Potter's face, but he just nods. "Monday, then." He lets his hand slip away from Draco's. Potter looks a bit lost, Draco thinks, and he almost relents. 

But he can't. 

"Thanks for today," Draco says. He doesn't know what to call it. Not a date. He and Potter don't do that. But he's not certain it was just a fuck. "Do you need help with…" He gestures towards the picnic detritus. 

Potter shakes his head. "I'll take care of it."

They look at each other for a long moment, then Draco leans in and kisses Potter, hard and fast, his heart thudding against his chest. He doesn't know how to do this between him and Potter sometimes. Not really. He pulls back. "Monday," he says. His fingers tighten on the backs of his shoes. 

"Monday," Potter says, watching him, his hands in his pockets, an odd look on his face. 

Draco Apparates away.

***

"It's good to see you, love," Molly says, enfolding Harry in a warm hug. "It's been far too long."

She's not wrong, Harry thinks as he kisses her cheek. He hasn't been to the Burrow since Christmas dinner, and he hadn't stayed the whole day. He doesn't so much now, not since he and Gin ended things. It's not that the Weasleys make him feel awkward about that--they never would--but they're her family in the end, and he'd never wanted them to feel as if they had to take sides. 

He and Ginny've been broken up for five years now. It'd been terribly public when it happened; the entirety of British wizarding society had been horrified, and the number of articles written about the both of them in the media had truly surprised Harry. He'd never thought other people could be that bloody invested in whether or not he and Ginny were going to make it to the altar. The whole ridiculous situation had been his first real realisation that even after the war he wasn't going to have a private life unless he took steps to do so. It'd been one reason why he'd first requested postings out of the country, once he knew he and Ginny weren't going to make it. If he wasn't here, the papers were less interested in who he was dating. Or shagging, really. Outside of Jake, there haven't been a huge number of boyfriends or girlfriends over the years. Harry fucks around a lot, but he's careful about giving his heart away. To be honest, he's not certain he every really has.

So he'd run away, as best he could, mostly to stay out of the pages of the papers; the majority of the Continental journos don't really give a damn about who he is or what he does, particularly if he's fallen out of favour with the British press. When he'd realised that, he'd asked Gawain and Kingsley to speak to Barnabas Cuffe, making certain the _Prophet_ at least would keep him off their pages unless he was on official Ministry business. 

Of course that means Harry's now been splashed across their front page for the past week and a half in regards to the bloody clusterfuck in the Auror department. And he'll probably stay there for a while--the resolution of the cases is obviously going to take some time. Wrightson, Selwyn, Hopkirk and Bates are all refusing to cooperate and no one's agreed to a Wizengamot-appointed barrister so far. 

Then there's Lucius Malfoy. He won't speak to anyone, especially not Hermione. He's insisting on talking to his son first, and Harry'll be damned if he makes Malfoy face his bloody father right now. He's watched Malfoy's face when his father comes up in meetings, and that tight, closed-off expression worries Harry. Jake's right. Malfoy's struggling with this in ways none of the rest of them understand. Not even Zabini and Parkinson. Harry's checked in with them as well--Malfoy's not really talking to them about his father either. 

And Malfoy's the rub, isn't he? Harry knows Gawain's not happy with him for protecting Malfoy the way he has been. He's their best shot at breaking Lucius, after all. But Harry doesn't care. He can't bear for that haunted look to cross Malfoy's face, not if he can do anything to keep it at bay. They'll get Malfoy's father to talk. In another way.

"Hey, mate." Ron hands Harry an uncapped beer. "Knut for your thoughts?" He glances towards his mother, who's now fussing over a heavily pregnant Angelina, who throws her head back and laughs, her long, dark braids bouncing against her burnt umber shoulders. Ron looks over at Harry. "Mum was all right, was she?"

"She's fine." Harry gives him a small smile. "No mention of me and Gin getting back together."

Ron takes a drink from his own bottle of cider. "The night's still young." He sits down at one of the two long tables set up in the Burrow's back yard, turning the chair so he's straddling it, his arms folded over the slatted back. "Although Gin's playing a match against the Wasps tonight, so at least Mum won't be throwing the both of you at each other in front of poor Nev."

"She's been better about that lately." Harry takes the chair next to Ron. "Your mum likes Neville."

"Well enough, sure," Ron says. "And fuck knows he's better than you were for Ginny, but…" He shrugs. "I'm not sure Mum'll ever get past the fact that he's not you."

Harry feels a twinge of guilt. "She ought to. He's a good man." He looks over at Molly and Angelina. Hermione's joined them now, a bright green and yellow scarf twisted around her hair; her sepia brown skin glowing against her cropped green t-shirt and long white skirt. She glances over at him and smiles; Harry lifts his cider her way. He loves the cosiness of the Burrow; he always has. He misses it when he's away too long, and he has been far too often lately. This is home for Harry, more than any other place outside of Hogwarts. Fairy lights gleam in the old oak tree beside the house, glittering in the ebb of daylight to dusk, and paper lanterns float above the table, lit with flickering candles. It's warm still outside; the heat of the day hasn't faded much, and Harry's red cotton shirt, untucked from his jeans, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, is starting to stick to his back a bit. He really ought to have worn a t-shirt, he thinks. He'd just been trying a bit more for Molly's sake. 

Ron's watching him, his eyes narrowed, then he leans in, a finger hooking on the edge of Harry's collar, pulling it down a bit. "Jesus, Harry," he says. "Tell Malfoy to stop biting you."

"What?" Harry's hand flies up to his neck. He can feel his face heat. He'd healed most of the love bites; he'd just left a few beneath his collar because he knows that turns Malfoy on. Him too, really. He likes looking into the mirror and seeing Malfoy's mark on him. "I've no idea what you're on about."

The look Ron gives him is long-suffering. "Don't even with me," he says, and he lifts his cider up to his mouth. "Hermione told me about the two of you. Not that you've bloody bothered." He sounds bitter, and Harry glances away, feeling ashamed. He's been living in a bubble in recent days, caught up with work and Malfoy and nothing else, but it's not just lately, is it? It's been growing over the past few years, since Harry broke up with Ginny and started running away to Luxembourg. He and Ron used to be joined at the hip, hanging out together most weekends and even during the workweek, going to the Leaky for a drink or two before heading home. It's been ages since they've done that on the regular; Ginny'd complained about it the entire time they were dating, saying Harry'd rather spend time with her brother than her. She hadn't been wrong, not towards the end. Harry wonders how he's managed to drift so far away from his best mate. It's not Ron's fault, after all. He tries. He's the one who firecalls, who coaxes Harry out for dinner or a Quidditch match, who does his best to keep in touch. If it weren't for Ron, Harry wonders if they'd even still be friends or if they'd have drifted into an awkward acquaintanceship the way Harry has with so many of his school mates. 

Really, Harry's utter shit at relationships across the board.

"I'm sorry," Harry says, and he means it. He turns his bottle between his hands. "I've been a prat, haven't I?"

Ron shrugs. "A bit." He looks over at Harry. "Hermione says she's already shouted at you about it all." He gestures with his bottle. "You know. The whole shagging someone who works for you to begin with, followed by what the fuck it's Malfoy, mate."

Harry's mouth quirks up on one side. "She's definitely said her piece."

"So I don't need to underscore it?" Ron takes a swig of cider, swallowing. He's not looking at Harry now; his gaze is fixed on the bonfire George and Bill are stacking up, tiny Victoire dancing around their feet, blue tulle skirt floating around her sturdy little body, trying to drag a stick of wood nearly as tall as her to the pile. Fleur grabs at her, pulling her away, a crying, swaddled Dominique nestled in the crook of her arm. Harry feels a bit wistful watching them. He'd always thought he and Gin would have kids one day, that he'd watch them playing in the back garden of the Burrow. That's another dusty dream, crumbling away under the realities of life.

Harry glances at Ron. "I know what I'm doing." He doesn't, not really, but he doesn't want to admit that, not even to Ron.

"You sure about that?" Ron rubs a thumb over the rim of his bottle. "I mean, Malfoy." He looks over at Harry. "There's a lot of history there. Most of it bad."

"I know." Harry thinks about Malfoy rising up over him this afternoon, how brilliant he'd looked, lean and long and pale in the sunlight, his blond hair falling over his face as he rode Harry's prick, his nipples pink and hard, his prick bobbing in a ruddy swell against his flat belly. Jesus, Malfoy's gorgeous. Harry knows Malfoy doesn't believe him when he tells him that, but he is. Harry loves the length of Malfoy, the way his coltish arms and legs fold in on themselves, the sharp angles and planes of Malfoy's face, the way his pale skin flushes when he's turned on, the long, feather-soft strands of his silvery blond hair. "It's complicated, yeah?" He takes a drink of his cider then sets the bottle down on the table, his thumb smoothing over the puckered paper label. "None of us are the same people we were eight years ago, are we?"

"Maybe not," Ron says. He scratches his ginger-bearded jaw. "Then again you and I weren't running around shouting pureblood slurs and trying to up-end wizarding society to put a no-nostriled shithead in power."

"But you _were_ supporting the Cannons," Harry says, and Ron flicks two fingers his way.

"Fuck off, you twat," Ron says. "Not quite the same thing." He smoothes down his Holyhead Harpies t-shirt. "Besides, I've expanded my teams, yeah?"

Harry snorts. "Only because Ginny threatened to hex your bollocks off."

"She's persuasive." Ron grins at him. "But seriously, mate. If you thought the _Prophet_ was bad when you and Gin split--what the hell do you think they'll make of you and Malfoy?" He lowers his voice and leans forward. "You think Skeeter won't go for your jugular? After what she did in school? Cuffe can't protect you from that. Malfoy's a Death Eater--"

"Was," Harry says, his voice sharp. He won't let Ron push that point. Not after he's touched the scar on Malfoy's forearm. He knows what ripping into his flesh had cost Malfoy.

Ron eyes Harry shrewdly. "Was," he repeats, then he sighs. "You really think he's changed."

"I know he has." Harry's voice is thick. He looks away. "Look, the _Prophet's_ not going to find out anyway, yeah? It's not like we're dating. We shag. That's it."

"Right." Ron lifts his bottle again. "That's it." 

Harry meets his gaze. "Yeah," he says. It's all Malfoy wants it to be, and Harry's fine with that. At least that's what he tells himself. 

Besides, when Malfoy walks into the incident room on Monday morning and finds Althea Whitaker sitting there, he's going to murder Harry. Right there. Right then. Whatever this is between them is going to implode, viciously and violently, Harry's afraid. Harry's kept Whitaker's transfer quiet; he's wanted these few days with Malfoy. It's selfish of him. Harry knows that. But Malfoy's been so proud of his promotion, so confident at work, so careful and open with Harry when they're alone, and Harry hasn't wanted to lose that Malfoy, hasn't wanted that door slammed shut on him. He likes the Malfoy who looks at him and smiles, the Malfoy who reaches for him, pulling Harry into a rough, eager kiss, the Malfoy who'll lie with him in the middle of a Cotswolds meadow, naked and pale and gasping beneath the Midsummer sun. 

Althea Whitaker's going to change all of that, Harry thinks. He wishes he'd told Gawain no, wishes he'd kept his team the way it is now. They've only just begun to gel, to bond, to find their feet beneath his supervision. He's an idiot for letting it all change. 

And more of one for not talking to Malfoy beforehand. Merlin.

Harry rubs his thumb over the rim of his cider bottle. "Yeah," he says again, and his voice sounds hollow, even to his ears. "Me and Malfoy. We're nothing but a good shag."

Ron shakes his head and looks away towards the Burrow door, where Charlie's coming out, holding a stack of plates, followed by Percy and his wife Audrey. Harry'd gone to their wedding in January; he hasn't seen Audrey since. "Whatever you need to think, mate." Ron sighs and sets his beer down. "So how's work? Hermione's bloody tense as fuck every time the paper arrives at breakfast."

Harry looks around reflexively to make sure no one is within easy earshot. He trusts them all, but the secrets are getting bigger as they get older. "You can't even imagine what it's like in the office right now. Robards is drinking digestive potions like water. Kingsley is constantly owling us for updates--which are practically non-existent right now since not a fucking one of the bastards is answering questions or accepting legal representation--"

"That's fucked up," Ron says. "Why wouldn't they hire a barrister?"

"It's a delaying tactic," Harry says. He runs a hand over his face, pushing up his glasses before letting them slide back down his nose. "Wrightson and Bates would know it. Wizengamot law--we can't properly prosecute until a defence barrister looks over the WPS's case, so the longer they refuse representation, the longer they can push off a court date, which makes the whole DMLE look like proper fuck-ups in the public eye, which they hope will help their case in the end because that's what their barristers will be arguing. Fucking wankers."

"Jesus," Ron says. He looks up as his wife appears at his side, a beer bottle in her hand. "Hey." He slips an arm around Hermione's waist, pulling her up against him and pressing his lips to her waist. She ruffles his hair, and Harry feels a stab of jealousy at the familiarity of their touch. He doesn't think he and Malfoy could ever have that simple ease.

"Talking about work?" Hermione asks, and Harry nods. She makes a face, lifting her bottle. "I'm fairly certain Croaker's going to have an apoplectic fit if one of those wankers doesn't break. We're putting money on Hopkirk in our team. At least she's caved and hired a barrister."

Harry's eyebrows go up. "Has she then?"

"This afternoon," Hermione says, and that explains why Harry hasn't heard. "Anvi Shafiq's taking her case."

"She's good," Harry says, and Hermione nods. "That'll be a challenge to get past her."

"Fair, too," Hermione says. "I think she'll encourage Mafalda to co-operate with us in exchange for a reduced charge. Gawain's certainly considering it."

It's not a bad move, Harry thinks. If Mafalda Hopkirk breaks, then they can try to turn Selwyn against her--and maybe even Malfoy. He doesn't think Wrightson and Bates are going to give in that easily. They know Auror interrogation techniques rather too well.

Hermione nudges his leg with her foot. "Did you see today's _Prophet_?" 

Harry sighs. There'd been a scathing editorial on the second page about corruption in the Auror force. "Sodding Rita Skeeter tried to stop me for a comment in the Atrium this morning, so Christ only knows what she'll put in the Sunday edition. It's a bloody shitshow." He looks over at Hermione. "You read the one about Azkaban?"

"Suggesting that the entire lot of Dementors be destroyed?" Hermione sits on Ron's knee, one arm draped over his shoulders. "I had to listen to Jake rant for half an hour--" She catches herself, biting her lip. "I mean…"

"It's fine," Harry says. He thinks it is at least. He's still not comfortable talking about Jake right now. Not after everything that's happened. But he finds himself asking, "He's still here then?"

Hermione hesitates, turning her beer bottle between her fingers. "Yeah. He'll be helping Barachiel Dee with the Dementors." She looks up at him. "Hence the rant."

"Yeah," Harry says. Jake had always been like that. Protector of the underdogs. It's one of the things Harry'd liked best about him. 

Ron rests his chin on his wife's shoulder. "Makes me glad all I have to do is sell Wheezes."

"You'd be brilliant at Auror work too, if you chose," Harry says. This is another sore spot between them, a scab that Harry sometimes can't help but pick at. When Ron had dropped out of Auror training, it'd been the worst fight he and Harry'd had since the bloody Forest of Dean. Harry'd hoped that Ron would stay in the Aurors, would be his partner as they worked their way up through the ranks, and he'd been bitterly disappointed not to have his best mate by his side. Harry envies the Slytherins that, the close bonds that had been forged at Hogwarts and solidified through Auror training and their assignments on the force. At least Harry gets to work with Hermione from time to time, but it's not the same as having your two best mates on a team. Christ, but Malfoy's fucking lucky with that.

Even if he has to tolerate Harry as a shit guv.

"Nah, I think I'm better in business," Ron laughs. "Somebody has to have a normal job." He rubs Hermione's back. "Yeah, love?"

Hermione kisses his temple. "You're definitely happier."

The look they share is warm and happy. Harry glances away, another twist of jealousy going through him. He'll never have what Ron and Hermione share. He knows that. He'd thought he might for a moment with Ginny, but it'd disappeared in between heated arguments and long silences. He never regrets their break-up; Ginny'd made the right choice in kicking him to the pavement. He'd been a hell of a boyfriend, and he knows that. But still, Harry misses the feeling of truly being partnered, of being present in a relationship, of knowing the person you care for has your back and vice versa. He hasn't let himself have that since Ginny. He's kept himself pulled back, one foot always out the door. He'd even done that with Jake, whether or not he'd realised it at the time. 

And here he's repeating the same pattern with Malfoy, isn't he? Being selfish, keeping Malfoy at arm's length one moment, pressed against him the next. Harry picks up his cider and drains the last of it. Christ, but he doesn't know what to do. Not any longer. 

There's a shriek from the bonfire, and a whoosh of flame. Victoire's jumping up and down, shouting as the wood catches on fire, clapping and shouting for her father. 

"Oi, you lot," Charlie calls out to Ron and Hermione and Harry from the sideboard that he and Arthur have moved into the garden. It's groaning with platters of food already. "Planning to get off your lazy arses and come fix your own sodding plates?"

"Language!" Molly says sharply from the kitchen door. She's carrying a basket of fresh baked rolls. The warm, yeasty scent drifts across the garden. "Honestly, Charlie, there are children present."

Charlie just grins at his mother. "I'm fairly certain Victoire's dad says worse in front of her on a daily basis."

"And he's scolded for it," Fleur says. She shifts Dominque to her other arm and reaches for Victoire before she can tumble into the bonfire. 

The shadows lengthen over Arthur's garden shed, stretching across the bright red roses that climb along the fence, up across the stone and wood of the Burrow itself. Hermione slips off Ron's lap and pulls Harry up out of his chair. 

"Happy Midsummer," she says, leaning up to kiss Harry's cheek. She holds him back as Ron heads towards the food and the warmth of bonfire and family. "Are you all right?" she asks. "I know it's been mad lately."

Harry nods. "Everything's fine," he says, but they both know it's a lie. Hermione's mouth purses, but she doesn't push him on it. 

Instead she walks beside him, her bare feet sinking into the grass. "Are you still certain we shouldn't bring Malfoy in for his father's questioning? Tang's getting nowhere with him."

"He shouldn't have to," Harry says. "Would you want to be part of something like this, if it were your dad?"

"My dad's a dentist, not a Death Eater, Harry." Hermione stops just shy of the Burrow kitchen door. "You know what we need. And Malfoy's not some fragile flower. He arrested his father, after all." She sounds a bit impressed, which surprises Harry.

Harry turns, his back to the Weasley clan. He shoves his hands into his jeans pockets. "I thought you said Malfoy was a wanker."

"I think I may have called him a complete tosser more than once." Hermione gives Harry a small smile. The light from the bonfire flickers across her brown face. "And he is. Always has been. But he's a complete tosser who had the bollocks to hand his father over to the DMLE. I respect that. And I think you ought to get over whatever knight on a white horse syndrome you've having at the moment, and let Malfoy be the man you say he is." She eyes him, her arms crossed over her chest. A narrow gold bangle glints from her thin wrist; her white skirt almost sweeps against the green grass of the garden. "I won't even get into my opinion again on your relationship."

"It's not--"

Hermione holds up a hand, cutting him off. "I don't care." She looks away. "That's not true. I do. But I worry about you. About what you're doing here. With him. For both of you." She sighs. "But you're a grown man, and I can't force you into doing what I think's best for you, no matter how much I might like to. But you're about to bollocks up a case for no bloody reason at all other than you don't want to make Malfoy sad." Hermione shakes her head. "For Christ's sake, Harry. You can't protect everyone, you know."

"I can try," Harry says quietly, and there must be something in his voice because Hermione just looks at him, a small furrow in her brow, her mouth opening as if she's just realised something. 

"Oh, Harry," she says, and she looks like she might cry. She touches his cheek lightly. He gets a whiff of her rose perfume. "Don't fall in love with Draco Malfoy. You can't do that to him. You know that. It's not fair. For either of you."

Harry looks away. "I don't know what I'm doing," he says after a long moment. He can hear Ron behind him, laughing at something Charlie's just said. "I just…" He glances at Hermione. "I feel things, and I'm not certain what they are. Or why they are. And I know I'm going to fuck this up for him. I'm his SIO." 

"Then break it off," Hermione says. 

"I don't think I can." Harry runs a hand over his jaw, tugging at his mouth. "I wish I could."

They look at each other, the banter of the Weasley clan rising around them. Hermione reaches for Harry's hand, slipping her fingers through his. "I'm sorry," she says, and she steps closer, pulling Harry against her. "I'm so very sorry, love."

Harry leans his head against hers and breathes out. 

"Me too," he murmurs into her hair. 

The bonfire sparks beside them, logs crashing together, sending flames leaping up into the midsummer night.

***

Pansy adjusts the strap on her red evening pump hastily when she lands in the private family Floo on the second floor of her parents' Norfolk home. She's hoping that her mother hasn't noticed she's late, or if she has, she's well distracted by other visitors. Pansy hasn't been home since Passover in April, and she'd only come back then because no one defies Camilla Hirsch Parkinson when she expects their presence. Not even her daughter.

And now Pansy's in Norfolk again for the same reason. If she could get out of her mother's annual Midsummer Eve soirée, she would, but the price she'd pay to do so would be far more annoying than spending an hour or two mingling with her parents' boring friends and playing the part of the proper daughter as her mother nitpicks at her, digging her fingernails into Pansy's arm as she drags her from eligible son to eligible son. Merlin, but her mother's views on matrimony are positively Victorian. Pausing to look at herself in one of the enormous scrolled silver mirrors her mother's hung along the length of the hallway, Pansy smoothes her carefully chignoned hair into place. She'd used her diamond hairpins, which her mother will appreciate, and her gown's the best of Gladrags' modern summer couture--a sleeveless purple and blood red poppy on white chiffon evening dress with a fitted bodice and an elegantly draping skirt. It hides the serpent tattoo curled around her thigh--the one Draco had talked her into during one drunken holiday in Ibiza and that her mother still hasn't seen--but shows excellent cleavage. Her neck's bare, but she's added heavy diamond earrings and a platinum toe ring if anyone looks too closely. Mother won't be pleased with that, Pansy thinks, but fuck it. She's due one mild rebellion tonight.

Pansy slips down the hallway to the half-bath, intending to enter the ballroom via the service stairs. She's surprised to meet a familiar figure: a wizened, floppy eared house elf named Jinksy, her nanny since her infancy. 

Jinksy shakes a long, bony finger at her. "Mistress Pansy should have been being here a half-hour ago." The elf smiles as she chides her. Her thin frame is frail and there's a strip from a pink cashmere throw draped over her tea towel. Pansy had pretended to stain that blanket years ago, one summer when she'd been home from Hogwarts, and then cut it into shreds for her nanny. She can't believe Jinksy still has them. "Mrs Parkinson is being very put out that Mistress Pansy is missing for the opening toast."

Pansy kneels down reflexively, letting Jinksy touch her cheek with a gentle hand. "Is it safe to sneak in this way?"

Jinksy nods gravely, looking at Pansy's face with cloudy bluish eyes. Pansy's heart twists; Jinksy's getting old, and Pansy doesn't want to think about what that might mean. Sometimes she thinks she loves Jinksy more than she does her own mother, and Pansy can't imagine not having her here when she's summoned. "Yes. Mistress Pansy should be quick, sneaking in behind the service elves--they is bringing out the carving now."

Pansy stands again, running a hand over her skirt. She's dreading this event, to be honest, and would much rather stay here with her favourite elf and eat warm milk and shortbread, the way she had when she was a small child, deemed too young and too gauche to be brought out and paraded before her parents' social circle. She takes a deep breath. Those days are well over now. "Thank you, Jinksy. I'll be back later to visit."

The wizened house elf waves a flapping hand. "Off with you, Mistress. They is entering the ballroom soon."

Pansy does as her elderly nanny instructs, flying down the stairs and managing to sneak in behind an enormous beef roast surrounded by wildflowers and herb bunches. It takes two house elves to levitate it, and Pansy blends in behind one of the standing floral arrangements just as the roast hurtles into the buffet area. Looking out from behind a curtain of cream sweet peas, peonies and green hydrangeas--Camilla does tend to overdo the decorations as Draco always points out--the first person Pansy spots is Tony bloody Goldstein. Her breath catches in her throat, and her heart pounds. She hasn't seen Tony since they broke it off last September.

He looks good, too good really, she thinks. His sandy brown hair is elegantly coiffed back from his forehead, giving him a leonine look with the fullness of the curls. He's wearing a simple evening suit, beautifully tailored, and his broad shoulders are even broader than she remembers. He's talking to a waifish young witch in a pale blue satin dress, who's leaning in to smile at him. A surge of jealousy rises in Pansy's heart. Cow, she thinks uncharitably. And one barely out of Hogwarts at that. _Tony, you bloody bastard._ Pansy looks away before she slides her wand out of the hidden pocket in her dress and hexes him with spots.

Her mother's charmed the ballroom to look like the summer sky. Fairy lights glitter around the perimeter, giving a golden glow to the room, and the wall of French doors is open to the gardens, letting the scent of roses and freesia drift in. To one side, there's a buffet table groaning with trays of meats and fish and staffed by the house elves in green and black tea towels monogrammed with a gold _P_. Pansy's always thought the Parkinson livery was a bit over the top, really. Camilla Parkinson stands at the other end, receiving guests, and Pansy still doesn't dare attract her attention. There's a faint tinkle of the harpsichord beneath the laughter and conversation of the guests still milling about and eating. Pansy's timed it well. The dancing hasn't started yet; Camilla always likes to start it off with the bagpiper playing a Scottish reel. Merlin but Pansy's sometimes certain her mother stepped straight out of a terrible Victorian novel.

From here, Pansy can see her mother's smooth eggshell satin gown, perfectly fitted to Camilla's tall, lithe body. She's wearing a golden leaved diadem that floats in her short, curly black-brown hair, no grey in it yet. Pansy suspects Camilla pulls any visible strands out daily. Her mother's olive skin and striking profile are an excellent complement to the gown's simplicity. She looks amazing, as usual, like Titania, queen of fairies, herself, and if Camilla has fewer than ten carats of diamonds in her choker, Pansy will eat a house elf's tea towel. Pansy doesn't remember this particular necklace, but her mother has such an extensive collection, it might not have been worn for several years. Then again, her father might have said something incredibly stupid again and had to visit Cockburn and Cokes down Diagon for a proper appeasement present. Pansy suspects the latter.

Her father is hovering off to the side with a knot of wizards around him, a cut-crystal tumbler full of a whisky older than Pansy herself in his hand, conducting business at the edge of the dance floor whilst watching the women who pass by. Pansy loves her father, she truly does, but he has a bit of a roving eye and a charming tongue. She doesn't know if he's ever stepped out on her mother--her parents keep their relationship incredibly private--but she thinks he couldn't have. Camilla simply wouldn't stand for it, Pansy's certain. She hadn't defied her own mother, turning down a perfectly acceptable Ravenclaw wizard who'd grown up in her shul to marry a brash, charismatic, Slytherin gentile like Terry Parkinson, just to watch him cheat on her down the line. 

Pansy startles when she hears Tony's voice behind her. "Is your dance card full already?"

She teeters slightly on her high heels and Tony reaches out an arm to steady her. She's breathless from his lightly calloused hand resting on her skin and the concerned look in his gold-brown eyes. And then Tony smiles at her, and Pansy's not ready for this at all. She wants to turn tail and flee, but her mother would literally kill her. Pansy regains her balance and Tony slowly drops his hand from her arm. She tries to ignore the lingering shiver and gooseflesh that prickles across her bare skin.

"Tony, what a surprise," Pansy manages, recovering her dignity and clutching her red evening bag close in an attempt to shield herself. "Does Eva know you're flirting with Hogwarts students?" She invokes his wife's name more for her own protection than to shame him. Perhaps it's cruel of her. She knows how he'd been struggling with his relationship before they'd even fallen into bed the first time. That's the problem with growing up in the same social circles--there are very few secrets one can keep. She also knows that neither Tony nor Eva had kept their marriage vows--Pansy hadn't been Tony's first affair in the six years of his marriage--but frankly, Pansy thinks at that point it might be time to call it quits. Not decide to toss aside the woman who truly loves you in favour of seeing if you might be able to mend your marriage. Tony and Eva had entered into that particular legally binding contract too bloody young and too bloody stupid, in Pansy's opinion. But she's not bitter about that. At all. 

To be honest, Pansy suspects her affair with Tony ended because of the animosity between her mother and his. Camilla and Michal Goldstein are second cousins through the Hirsch side and have disliked each other since Hogwarts. Camilla's never said what happened between them--Pansy strongly suspects it was Tony's father--but no one can hold onto a grudge like a Slytherin and a Ravenclaw, and when the rumours about Pansy and Tony started to swirl, Camilla had pulled Pansy aside and told her to end it. Immediately. Pansy had told her mother to fuck off, but it hadn't mattered. Michal must have gotten to Tony. Within the fortnight, he'd moved back into the London flat he and Eva had bought their first year together.

Tony laughs, bright and loud, and Pansy shushes him before he draws the attention of her mother. "To be fair, Julia was flirting with me."

Pansy shakes her head, lips twisting in a small smile. She hates how easily Tony can charm her. Then again, they've known each other since childhood. "Keep telling yourself that." She wonders why Tony's here tonight. She's surprised her mother put him on the guest list, to be honest. It must have been at her father's behest. Before he'd broken things off with her, he'd been making noises about investing in her father's latest venture. She wonders if he has. It's not something she has any intention of asking about.

"Does Camilla know you're here yet?" Tony plucks a flute of champers from a tray Levitating past and hands it to her. "Only she was looking a bit put out a half hour ago when the family toast started."

Pansy sighs. Her fingers curl around the champagne flute. "I got caught up in the lab and lost track of time. We've so much to prepare right now." She hesitates. She really ought to be back there. She'd left Jonesey watching one of her experiments for her and Merlin only knew how badly he was going to fuck it up. "You've seen the _Prophet_ , I'm certain." Her mother's still unhappy that Pansy's been mentioned more than once. Camilla doesn't particularly care for Pansy's career choice as it is, and she'd sent a polite but pointed note to Pansy when the first article had come out, suggesting that perhaps having the Parkinson name in the papers attached to such a sordid story might be bad for her father's business. As if Pansy has any damned thing to do with that.

Tony gives her a sober look. "I've been following. It's all anyone can talk about at work." His eyes stay fixed on her face, and Pansy feels her cheeks warm a bit under his scrutiny. Circe, her body is starting to respond to him in ways it shouldn't, not with the history between them. "But are you staying safe then, little violet?"

Pansy bristles at the familiarity of the childhood nickname. "I took down someone in a raid," she counters. "And I'm in physical training four times a week." Somehow she wants to be tough, wants Tony to see how strong she's become. How much she doesn't bloody need him any more. He's the one who'd shown her bits and pieces of Krav Maga, and she'd like to see him keep up with her now. "I can flip Blaise on his back easily. So yes, I think, all things considered, I'm rather safe."

"Impressive." Tony's eyes crinkle when he smiles. Pansy hates him even more, she thinks. Except she doesn't. At all. They stare at each other for a long moment.

Pansy steps back, turning away. "I'd best go before Mother has a fit."

Tony catches Pansy's hand, lifting it to his mouth as he presses a soft kiss to her knuckles. Pansy closes her eyes for a moment, nipples hardening at the brush of his lips. This won't do at all, she thinks, smelling the sandalwood and juniper of his scent and wanting to wrap herself around him, to drag him back into the kitchens and let him have her in the pantry or against the old stone of the wine cellar. He's certainly done it before.

Instead Pansy flashes her teeth in a narrow smile. "I'd be happy to dance later," she says. "But I really must go do my duty." She makes her escape, the warmth of his lips still palpable against her hand. Fuck. She ought to have known that Tony would wreck her. She just wishes he wouldn't do it over and over.

When her mother catches sight of Pansy, Camilla stiffens, her mouth tightening just enough for Pansy to see her displeasure, before relaxing into a gentle smile. "Why Pansy, how lovely that you could make it from town. You must be so busy." She reaches a hand out, drawing Pansy closer. Camilla presses her cheek to Pansy's. She smells like musky oud and bright bergamot, her favourite perfume. 

Pansy knows better than to mention her career, knows that this would likely send her mother into a fit of vapours or worse. "I'm so sorry," she murmurs, kissing her mother's cheek before pulling back. "I couldn't find one of my earrings." The lie will save her a few moments of pain. She touches the diamonds on her earlobes. "I had to change."

Her mother scans her ears for a second, looking at the set of emerald-cut earrings Pansy's received for her eighteenth birthday. "Well, at least you didn't lose those. I don't know that we could match the other easily. They were cut from the same stone, you know."

Pansy does know--she's only hear numerous times how precious they are and the fact that they were goblin-made to her mother's demanding specifications. Still, Pansy meekly accepts the correction, furiously annoyed but still relieved to let off some of her mother's irritation this way. She looks over at her sister, who's just walked up, a glass of wine in her hand. "Hello, Daisy."

"Hello, love." Daisy blows a kiss her way. She's eight years older than Pansy, tall and slender like their mother, prettier with her dark curls and dark eyes and perfectly sculpted features than Pansy will ever be. Daisy has always been the good daughter, the one who never ripped her Sunday dresses playing in the gardens, whose best friends had always been the right girls from the right families, not the boys, the daughter their mother had brought out during dinners with Father's business partners because she knew how to comport herself properly. Daisy's everything that Pansy's not, including her father's right hand in the business and four years married to Eustace Fawley, a proper scion of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, even if he is a Hufflepuff. Her only real fault is not providing Camilla with a grandchild yet, although Pansy's sure that's coming up next on Daisy's bloody five-year plan. Thank Circe Daisy and Eustace live in the States now, heading up the overseas branch of her father's industrial potions business. Pansy only has to be held up to Daisy and found wanting on special occasions now. Not on a daily basis.

"How's Eustace?" Pansy asks. She doesn't really care. She finds her brother-in-law excruciatingly dull. And a bit stupid.

Daisy raises her eyebrow in amusement. She's well aware what Pansy thinks of her husband. "Well." Her mouth quirks to one side. "Boring as ever," she says, and that coaxes a smile out of Pansy. "But I love him, so I suppose that makes me tedious as well."

"Never, darling," Camilla says, settling a hand on Daisy's arm. She looks over at Pansy, rather pointedly. "Doesn't your sister look lovely tonight?" Pansy knows she's not talking about her. She takes in Daisy's deep blue gown, obviously French couture by the way it drapes beautifully over her lithe body. Pansy feels frumpy and stodgy beside her sister, the way she always has. Compared to Daisy, Pansy'll always be the pug-faced one, plain and ordinary and odd with her crooked nose and her pointed chin.

Daisy frowns at their mother, then turns towards Pansy. "Your dress is brilliant, you know." She slips her arm into the crook of Pansy's elbow. "You'll have to tell me where you found it, won't you?" 

They make their escape as Belladonna Flint sweeps up, arms open for their mother. Like the rest of their set, Camilla loathes the gossipy Belladonna, even more so than Tony's mother, and the hatred is mutual, so, of course, they spend an inordinate amount of time with each other, pretending they're the best of friends. Pansy thinks it's like hate sex, but with catty spats and shopping trips instead.

"Don't listen to her," Daisy says, with a backwards glance at their mother. "She does adore you, you know. Whatever you might think."

"Like one adores Dragon Pox." Pansy hates the way her mother makes her feel like a ugly little child again. She'll never measure up to her mother's expectations. It's been twenty-six years now, and she hasn't, after all. She doesn't bother to remind her sister that their mother spends most of her time letting Pansy know all the ways she's failed her. Daisy was already at Hogwarts by the time Camilla'd decided three-year-old Pansy needed proper corrective attention. Sometimes Pansy wonders if it's just that she and her mother are so very, very different or if Camilla resents her for her birth. Pansy'd been a surprise baby, utterly unexpected, and whilst she knows her mother loves her in her own way, Pansy also can't help but think Camilla would have been utterly happy to have had her family stop with Daisy.

Daisy gives her an amused look. "The two of you aren't so very different, you realise. It's why you drive each other mad."

"Oh, please," Pansy scoffs, but there's a part of her, deep down inside, that suspects her sister's not wrong.

'Besides, "Daisy says, "you know how she gets when she's hosting." She wrinkles her nose. "Nothing's good enough, and she wants to pit us against each other." Daisy squeezes Pansy's arm. "I love Mother, I do, but Merlin. I can't tell you how thrilled I am to be tucked away in New York now."

"Pansy, girl, come let us look at you!" Terry Parkinson is already well into his cups, but he's still standing upright and his voice is barely slurred. He enjoys the social power of these gatherings--if this year is like the last, he'll withdraw during the dancing to socialise with his cronies in the library. Pansy knows that they conduct business here, and she also knows she doesn't want to know the details. Terry comes from a long line of Parkinson men, merchants and corporate raiders, who've twisted the law more than a bit to their advantage, including Perseus Parkinson, a many, many times great-uncle who'd briefly been Minister of Magic before being voted out as soon as Britain could be rid of him. As for Pansy, her father'd been a bit too pleased that she'd joined the Auror force, and she suspects he hopes he'll be able to use that to his advantage at some point. He's wrong, but she doesn't want to tell him that yet.

When he kisses her, his breath reeks of the peaty whisky he favours. If Daisy's Camilla's favourite, Pansy's always been her father's, even when he's tried to use her as a pawn in his grab for status and power. He'd been furious with her when he'd realised she wasn't going to pursue Draco--either for a husband or a lover--and they hadn't spoken for a good three months afterwards. Still, he's raised her to have a backbone. He just doesn't tend to like it when she doesn't bend to his will. 

"Hello, Papa," she says, and she slips her arm around him. Her father's short and stocky, with a smooth, bald head that flushes when he's had a few too many drinks. Pansy looks nothing like him either; she takes after Grandmother Hirsch, who was born a Lévy in Paris, which possibly explains her mother's frustration with Pansy's appearance. For some reason Camilla finds her mother exasperating, which Pansy's never understood. Pansy adores her grandmother; she's smart, witty, and raised three children on her own after her husband died young--just after co-authoring a book with the famous Newt Scamander. David Hirsch had been gored by a Erumpent in his work as a naturalist when he was barely older than Pansy is now, and his wife Zara had supported her young family--Camilla, Violet and Basil--on a herbologist's salary. Pansy's certain her love of magical science comes from her Grandfather and Grandmother Hirsch; Grandmother had taken her out into her back garden when she was tiny and let her dig in the dirt for insects and worms, all the while teaching Pansy about the various magical plants her plump fingers were pushing beneath. She'd aced Herbology her entire way through Hogwarts thanks to that early training.

Daisy comes around to her father's other side. She takes the glass of whisky away from him deftly and discreetly, setting it on a passing house elf's tray, along with her own nearly empty wine glass. "Are you enjoying yourself, Dmitri?" she asks one of the men Terry's talking to. He's lanky and slim and handsome, chestnut brown hair falling to his shoulders, and his black suit is pristinely tailored. 

Pansy's surprised when he replies in a distinctly American accent. "You and your father are excellent hosts." He turns towards Pansy, holding out his hand. She takes it. "Dmitri Godunov," he says. "Of Chicago originally, now New York." His grip is firm.

"One of Papa's business partners, I assume." Pansy gives him a faint smile as he releases her hand. 

"Soon to be, I hope," Terry booms. "Right, Daisy?"

"If we can convince Dmitri it's worth signing the papers." Daisy has that flirtatious tone in her voice that Pansy knows well is hiding an iron will. Poor Godunov. He's no idea what he's in for, she thinks. 

Godunov laughs. "Nearly there." 

The lonely wail of a bagpipe starts up from the other end of the room, and heads start to turn. Pansy grimaces. "Mother's convinced a good reel gets everyone in the mood for dancing," she says to Godunov, and he smiles at her. This year Camilla's out done herself; she's hired a full troupe in kilts and tartan to dance their way down the middle of the ballroom. Her parents' friends are delighted, of course; they line the path, clapping in rhythm. Pansy and Daisy exchange a long-suffering look, hanging back as their father surges forward, his business associates in tow. All except Godunov, who looks rather amused by the whole thing. 

"I feel as if I should apologise for Mother." Pansy watches the dancers whirl past. "She reads _Waverley_ every year around this time."

Daisy sighs. "At least it's not _Wuthering Heights_."

"God help us all," Pansy says. "We'd be forced to endure a drama of tragic moors and doomed romance. Thank Merlin the dancing's done with soon enough."

The dancers disappear out into the garden, and a proper waltz strikes up. Godunov turns to Pansy. "May I?" he asks, holding out his hand. Pansy's a bit taken aback; she glances over at Daisy who gives her a sharp look and a nod. So Godunov's one of those then, Pansy realises. More money than God and no idea of any lingering post-war scandal still clinging to the Parkinson name. Her father's needed to go abroad for investment income the past few years; even his friends are careful where they put their money for now. Terry Parkinson's fortunate that he'd only lurked in the social circle frequented by the Death Eater elite. He's been tainted by that, but he'd never bought into their ideology.

Pansy takes Godunov's hand. It's the least she can do, she supposes, and she loves to dance anyway. She's good at it--better than Daisy, even--which delights her mother. Pansy's learnt to take the victories she can.

He leads her out onto the dance floor. "Can you waltz?" Pansy asks impertinently. "Or shall I lead?"

"They did teach us a few things at Ilvermorny," Godunov says with a smile. "We're not all heathens across the pond." He sweeps her out among the dancers, and Pansy's pleasantly surprised to find he can dance. Nearly as well as Draco, who'd been her waltzing partner for years. 

"Well done, you," Pansy says. She lets him swirl her past her mother. Camilla's watching, a pleased look on her face. Pansy may not be the prettiest daughter, but she is the most graceful, and she looks damned good on a dance floor.

Godunov's hand settles on the small of her back. "And what do you do? I haven't seen you in any of my meetings with your father or your sister."

"Oh, I'm the black sheep of the family," Pansy says, smiling up at him. He's attractive, she has to admit, with his bright blue eyes and his stubbled jaw. "I'm an Auror."

"An Auror?" Godunov echoes. He raises an eyebrow. "Unexpected."

If he only bloody knew, Pansy thinks. "I do magiforensicology," she says. "Loads of dead things crossing my worktable. Mother's thrilled, of course."

Godunov laughs again. "I'm sure." He swings her wide and her dress billows out around her. Pansy's certain it's a pretty sight. 

"And you?" She looks up at him. "Investments, I presume?"

"Of sorts." Godunov pulls her closer. "But mostly my family deals in unusual potions ingredients. Among other things."

Pansy raises an eyebrow. "Intriguing. And possibly illegal?" She's surprised at her boldness. Daisy will throttle her if she finds out.

"We make certain we operate within the bounds of American wizarding law," Godunov says smoothly. Pans wants to snort. Right. Because her father has a tendency to find highly ethical and above board business partners. She makes a note to look up Dmitri Godunov in the Auror databases. Not that it's likely they'll have anything on him. But she wants to make certain her father's not going to do anything incredibly stupid.

Or Daisy, for that matter.

There's a tap on Godunov's shoulder, and Pansy looks up to see Tony there, his eyes fixed on her face. 

"May I cut in?" He's asking her, not Godunov.

Pansy glances at Godunov, who's dropped his hands and stepped back, a faint smile on his face. 

"Be my guest, Anthony," Godunov says, and he gives Pansy a small bow. "Lovely to meet you, Miss Parkinson."

"Enchanted." She watches him walk away before she turns back to Tony. "Are you mad?" she asks. "My father wants--"

"To get into bed with that arsehole." Tony frowns at her, his hand settling possessively on her waist as he whirls her back into the waltz. "I'm aware."

"You don't like him." Pansy shivers at the feel of Tony's fingers curving around her side. 

Tony has a hard set to his face. "Not for you, my dear."

"It was a dance, Tony. Not a bloody proposal." Pansy tilts her head. "Should I be concerned for my father? Or for Daisy?"

Tony doesn't answer. Instead he twirls her gracefully, both of their chins high. Pansy'd forgotten how lovely it is to dance with him, how fleet footed and commanding he can be. She wishes it weren't only out of jealousy. When Pansy glances over, her mother's frowning at her, but it's not just annoyance, there's a look of concern mixed in there as well. She sees a flash of deep blue across the dance floor: Daisy is dancing with Godunov now. Pansy shrugs inwardly. It's not her business deal, after all.

Without a word, Tony waltzes them to the French doors and stops, taking Pansy's hand and rather firmly walking her out into the garden, still keeping an elegant bearing as they descend down the steps and onto the terrace populated only by heavy pots of white freesia. The gardens stretch out in front of them, her mother's prized roses in full bloom, their scent heady and rich on the warm night air. Fairy lights dance in the trees, and the grass is thick and green around the flower beds. They're not as grand as the ones at Malfoy Manor, but Camilla's done a beautiful job planning them over the years. 

The moment she steps onto the crushed shell paving, Pansy pulls her hand away. "You are going to tell me now what's going on, Tony Goldstein." 

Tony reaches into his jacket and pulls out an engraved cigarette holder. Pansy's momentarily surprised: it's one of his vices, but Eva hates the habit, won't speak to him if he comes home smelling of smoke. "Would you like one?"

She shakes her head, crossing her arms over her chest. "I want to know what you know, Tony. This can't just be jealousy as you've given up that claim ages ago."

Tony lights a fag, then takes a drag from it, before exhaling a thin plume of smoke. "As I recall, it was only last year. But it's not that." He smiles wryly at her, and Pansy's heart skips a beat. "Not entirely." 

He's damnably handsome, she thinks.

Pansy shrugs. "So what's his name--"

"Godunov," Tony says.

"Godunov's family," Pansy says, "made illegal potions and are involved in the Russian and American trade. How is this worse than anyone else you or my father or the rest of the bastards in that ballroom do business with?" The night is warm, but she has gooseflesh, whether from Tony or from premonition or just from pure irritation she's not certain. 

He doesn't say anything for a moment, then he sighs and taps ash from the tip of the cigarette. "He works with the Abadzhievs," he says finally, and he meets Pansy's gaze. 

"Oh." Pansy wraps her arms around herself, fingers tight on her elbows. "Fuck."

"An appropriate sentiment." Tony lifts the cigarette to his lips again. "I'm not certain your sister knows."

"You haven't told her?" Pansy gives him an incredulous look. "You're going to let my family get into dealings with--"

"Terry suspects," Tony says quietly, and Pansy's stomach twists. "He's doing his best to overlook it for Daisy's sake. This is her first triumph in her new position. You ought to keep in better touch with her, you know. She misses you." Pansy looks away, taking a few steps down the path. Tony lets her. She can smell the acrid scent of his smoke, mixing with the freesia and the roses. She feels a bit ill. "What are you going to do?" Tony asks after a moment.

Pansy hasn't a fucking clue. She shakes her head. "I don't know." It might not mean anything. The Abadzhiev family has their fingers in half the potions trade in Europe. Her father's probably already working with them. She runs her hands over her face, then draws in a shaky breath. "You know, I processed the crime scene. When he died." She glances at Tony. "Luka."

Tony shrugs, looking away. "He was a nasty piece of work, that one. Always gave me the creeps, like a spoilt sociopath."

"You knew him." Pansy turns back towards him. "Tony. What are you doing?"

"Nothing you should worry about." His face is pleasant again, but it's a mask. She knows. She knows almost everything about him. Except this, it seems. "We met a year or so ago. It's nothing, Pans. Just...." He hesitates, and an odd expression flits over his face. It's gone in an instant. "Work."

A wave of unease runs through Pansy. Tony's always been cagey about what he does. He presents himself as a venture capitalist, using his parents' money and reputations to move in circles like those of her father and other powerful wizards and witches. But he'd spent a great deal of time when they were together in Luxembourg, and when she'd ask about it, he'd brush her off, claiming that he was just lobbying the International Confederation of Wizards. Pansy'd never been certain about that. She wonders how many threads she'd find if she pulled this one, threads that lead back to the people she cares most about. She's always feared this, working for the Aurors, but convinced herself she could keep it separate, that she'd only go after the criminals. Now she's not sure who those are anymore--it's all far too close to home.

"Tony," she says, and then she stops. She doesn't know what to say. She supposes she's foolish and naive. And she doesn't really want to know any more, if she's honest. She takes a deep breath, tries to regain her composure.

He gives her a level look. "Eva and I are separating, by the way." He takes another drag off his cigarette and breathes out a slow curl of grey smoke. He glances away. "For good this time."

Pansy stills. "Don't tell me that, Tony," she says softly. She can't look at him. 

"I couldn't keep lying to her." Tony drops his fag on the path and grinds it out with his heel. "It wasn't going to work. I knew that before you and I--"

"Please don't." Pansy feels as if she's made of nothingness. Her bones, her skin, everything feels hollow, like she could just let go and waft into the air like smoke. She's lost all solid ground. 

Tony catches her hand, turns her to face him. "Pans." He's so close, and it's everything she's wished for since he left her, everything she's fantasised about lying across her bed wrapped in his old jumper. Her eyes flutter closed, and she can breathe him in, feel the heat of his body, the familiarity of his scent. "I've missed you."

Pansy opens her eyes. He's there, the way she's dreamt him for months now. And when his lips brush hers, she melts against him, her fingers catching in the lapels of his jacket, holding on as tightly as she can. His hands are on her hips, and he pulls her closer, his mouth moving against hers, their kiss deepening until Pansy's entire body is trembling with desire. He's solid against her, and it'd be so easy to let him lift her up, to Apparate her away to her bedroom, to let him bury himself in her soft folds until she's crying out, arching up against him, begging him for release. 

She pulls away from the kiss, breathless. Her hands drop from his jacket; she takes a small step backwards. "Tony," she says, and it's the hardest thing she's had to do. "I can't." Her chest is tight and hot; she can feel a flush rising over her cheeks. "I'm sorry. I just--" She bites her bottom lip. "I can't."

"Pansy." His face is unguarded, open. "I'm always here for you."

She knows he means it, and it takes everything Pansy has to walk away from him, her heels grinding against the crushed shells of the path. She keeps her head held high, but the tears are already leaking from the corners of her eyes. She doesn't look back. She can't. 

She runs up the terrace steps, her skirt caught up in her hands. Daisy's at the French doors, an elegant column of blue silk and dark hair. 

"Pansy," Daisy says, but Pansy shakes her head, brushing past. 

"I have to go," she says. "Tell Mother--" Pansy's no idea what to say. "Tell her it's work." 

Daisy catches her elbow. "Are you all right?"

No, Pansy wants to say. Instead she lifts her head and gives her sister a damp smile. "I will be."

Daisy looks as if she doesn't believe her, but she drops her hand. She looks back towards the garden where Tony's still standing. "Just go now," she says. "Use the kitchen Floo. I'll handle Mother."

"Thanks," Pansy says, and she kisses her sister's cheek. 

She takes a shuddering breath and slips through the French doors, back into the bright lights of the ballroom.

If this is the magic of Midsummer Night, she'd rather be locked up in the comfortable solitude of her lab, ta ever so fucking much.

She disappears into the flurry of the dance.

***

Draco waits on a hard wooden chair in the lobby of the Department of Mysteries, uncomfortably surrounded by slick black marble and a heavy silence. The collar of his white shirt rubs against the reddened skin on the nape of his neck. The sunburn goes across his shoulders and down his back, pink and sore, and even an aloe salve had barely taken the ache away. He'll have to show his mother eventually; he's certain she has something more effective for the pain, but he hadn't wanted to endure her careful scrutiny the night before. She's finally stopped asking about Potter, finally stopped questioning him when he doesn't come home at night. But she's still left his unfinished transfer documents on the kitchen counter; he'd found them lying next to the post basket this morning. His mother's nothing if not subtle.

He knows she thinks he should turn them in. She's not wrong. But when Draco'd picked them up this morning, he'd felt paralysed, his anxiety rising sharply, that familiar tight thud of his heart against his chest wall frightening him. He'd dropped them back into the basket, his hand shaking, and it'd taken a full five minutes of sitting at the island, taking slow, even breaths before that panic had faded away. It's too much right now, on top of everything else. Draco's never been good with change; it makes him nervous and antsy. He has to get through the first hearings, he thinks, before he'll be ready to make a decision without falling apart. He hopes he can last that long. 

Footsteps ring out through the lobby, and Phoebe Rayne turns the corner, a smile brightening her face. "Sergeant Malfoy," she says, and the new title still sounds wrong to Draco's ears. Potter's told him he'll get used to it soon enough, and so has Bertie, but Draco can't quite believe he's really gone up in rank, despite the white piping on his Auror jacket and the bright red sergeant's bars pinned above his chest pocket. It's mad, really, the change in the way he's been treated the past week and a half. He's not certain if it's the promotion itself or the fact that he'd had the bollocks to arrest his own bloody father. Bertie'd been right. His fellow Aurors are showing him more respect these days. Even the _Prophet_ 's been less odious than usual when mentioning him in the articles about the arrests and the potential corruption in the force. Potter's had it worse, really, but Rita Skeeter's always loathed him. Draco doesn't know what Potter expects.

Draco stands. "Thanks for seeing me on a Saturday morning."

Rayne smiles at him, her hair a loose, ginger mass of curls around her pale face. She looks tired. "No worries. I'm on Midsummer duty this weekend anyway. It's been quiet enough for us, but your lot's had a few more additions to your holding cells, I hear." 

"Unsurprising." Draco follows her down the narrow corridor, waiting for her to unward the inner doors. "Solstice always gets a bit too intoxicating for some people's magic." 

"I heard there's someone in St Mungo's whose friend switched her head with a donkey's," Rayne says. The door clicks, and she pushes it open, letting Draco enter first.

Draco gives her an amused look. "And they can't switch it back?"

Rayne shrugs. "Midsummer magic, my friend. Takes time to wear off." She leads him down another corridor, tiled once more in black marble. Their boots clatter loudly in the silence. Rayne glances over at him. "You certain about this?"

"No," Draco says, and his honesty surprises him. "I don't know if I'll go in."

"You don't have to." Rayne turns a corner. "He's being treated humanely, if you're wondering. Granger's made certain of that."

Draco knows. He's kept up with his father's confinement, even if he hasn't gone by to see him. Frankly, he wouldn't be here today if it weren't for his mother. She's worrying about Lucius, terrified to go see him herself, even though Draco's told her he'd make arrangements if she wanted to. She doesn't. Not yet. And so he's here at mid-morning on a Saturday in her place, still feeling the effects of the half-bottle of wine he'd drunk the night before. He ought to have had another glass at breakfast, just to be able to stomach his father. 

If he even goes in. He's not certain he can. 

They stop in front of a tall, silver door. "You want to look first?" Rayne asks, and Draco nods, his throat dry. 

Rayne taps her wand against the door frame, and the door itself fades, becoming transparent. "He can't see or hear you," she says.

Draco steps closer. The cell's small, but not as tiny as the Auror holding cells. There's enough space for a bed and a loo and a small chair. There's a window charmed into the wall, one of the ones that seems as if it's looking out onto the countryside. Sheep graze on green pastures, and the sky is a cloudless blue. 

"Better than Azkaban," he says, almost beneath his breath. He doesn't know how his father will survive the cold and damp of the North Sea prison. He's fifty-three and in shit health, thanks to his drinking. 

And then the man himself steps into view. Lucius looks haggard and pale; the standard grey prisoner's robe he's wearing hangs off his tall frame, falling in loose billows around him. Deep lines crease his face, and his long hair is unwashed and limp. His skin is patchy and wan. He looks like shit, Draco thinks, and when his father raises his hand to push his hair back away from his face, it trembles. Badly. Lucius needs a drink, Draco realises. His father hasn't gone this long in years without some form of alcohol in his system. 

Rayne's watching him. "Do you want to go in?"

Draco hesitates. He could say no, he knows. Rayne wouldn't think less of him. No one would. But he knows his father's refusing to speak to anyone, not until he talks to Draco, and as much as Potter--like a damned fool--is trying to spare him this moment, Draco knows he'll have to face it some day. Sooner rather than later. Robards and Shacklebolt won't let Potter protect him much longer, and it's best to have it out of the way when he's on his own. Not when Potter's watching him, or any of the others. He can't bear Potter's sympathy or anyone else's pity.

He nods.

"Knock twice when you're ready to come out," Rayne says, and she sweeps her wand in a quick, complex pattern of spirals that Draco's eye can't even follow. The door, no longer transparent, swings open. "You've a visitor, Malfoy," she says, and she motions to Draco to step into the cell. 

Draco does. "Hello, Father," he says quietly, and Lucius looks over at him, surprised. The door slams shut behind Draco, and his heart thuds. He knows he's not being left alone with his father. Not truly. He's certain Rayne's outside, the transparency charm in effect. Probably a recording spell going as well. She's an Unspeakable, not a fool. If his father says something incriminating to him, the whole bloody DMLE will want to know, not just the spooks.

Lucius just watches him, his eyes narrowed, his jaw working. Draco ignores him and walks over to the small chair, sitting in it. The seat's upholstered and slightly padded. It's not the most uncomfortable chair Draco's ever sat in--the ones in Robards' office would take that prize--but it's not meant for lounging, that's for bloody certain. Still it forces his father to either stand or sit on the edge of the bed, and neither position shrieks of power. And that puts Draco exactly where he wants to be. Draco crosses one leg over the other and looks at Lucius. 'Well," he says. "I hear you've been demanding to see me."

His father licks his lip. "Left me waiting long enough," he says finally, and Draco shrugs. 

"Perhaps I thought you needed time to think." Draco refuses to look away from his father. He knows the ways in which Lucius tries to dominate. Draco's determined not to let his father get under his skin. It's difficult; Draco's been trained since birth to acquiesce to his father. 

Lucius looks Draco up and down, taking in his neatly tailored Auror uniform.. "And you dressed to impress, I see. On a Saturday, even. My, my, aren't we the proper little sergeant now?" At Draco's raised eyebrow, his father gives him a thin smile. "One does hear things, even in a locked cell."

Draco flicks a piece of lint off his sleeve. "Perhaps I wanted to remind you of the difference in our status." His voice is cold, steely. He needs it to be to spar with his father. "At least I'm on the right side of the law this time."

"But are you?" Lucius asks sharply. "In a department troubled with traitors?" His smile's like a rapier, quick and cutting. "Some might beg to differ."

"Some would be fucking arseholes," Draco says. He leans back in the chair, trying not to show his discomfort. He knows he can't give his father anything to work with. The man's been trained by Abraxas Malfoy, after all. He knows exactly how to go for the jugular, if necessary. 

His father walks over to the door, staring at it, as if he knows he's being watched. "You think that scarred arm of yours will keep them from coming after you as well?" He turns back to Draco. "You're Marked, Draco. No matter what you do, you always will be in their eyes."

"Perhaps." Draco leans forward, his elbows on his knees. He looks up at his father, trying to keep his face impassive. "But I'll do everything I can to prove them wrong. Which is something you'll never be able to understand." 

They look at each other for a long moment, then Lucius sits on the edge of the bed, and Draco feels as if he's won a small battle. "How did it feel to arrest me?" his father asks, and there's a bitter edge to his voice. "Your own blood?"

"I'd do it again," Draco says, his voice as calm as he can manage. "If I thought it necessary." He meets his father's gaze evenly. "Are you going to tell me what you were doing? With Dolohov of all people? He's bloody mad--"

"I didn't have a choice," Lucius spits out. 

"You _always_ have a choice." Anger burns hot in the pit of Draco's belly. He's tired of his father making excuses; Draco's grown up with Lucius bollocksing up and then trying to explain it away. "You could have chosen not to let the Dark Lord back in our lives; you could have protected me and Mother--"

Lucius's mouth tightens. "I was doing my best--"

"For you." Draco grips the edge of the chair, trying not to lose his temper. "Everything you've done, Father, has always been about what's best for you. Not me. Not Mother. You wanted power. You decided the Dark Lord could give it to you." Draco doesn't know what to say to his father any longer. He looks away, his throat tight. "I know you loved us, but you never bothered to protect us." He swallows, then takes a slow, shallow breath; he refuses to break down here in front of the Unspeakables. In front of his father. "I'm not you. I wanted to be, years ago. But not any longer." He looks back at Lucius; his father's face is stony. Hard. "Just tell us what we want to know. About Dolohov. The Soul Grass. Everything. We'll find it out eventually."

Lucius stays silent, looking out the faux window. His mouth is a thin, tight line. 

"Fine," Draco says. He stands up. "I'm not going to help you, you know." He stares at the wall over his father's head. "I know that's what you think I should do. It's probably why you've refused to speak to anyone until you saw me. Because you think you can convince me to get you out of here. To let you ring in a favour with someone, to support whatever idiotic story you have now about why you were forced into helping Dolohov." Draco glances down at his father, at his bent head, his dirty hair hanging in his face. "But I won't this time. Because you never learn, Father." His voice trembles, as much as he hates himself for it. "I wish you would."

He's almost at the door when Lucius says quietly, "This is more than you know, Draco. More than you can understand."

Draco looks back. His father's shoulders are slumped, his head turned away. "What do you mean?"

Lucius shakes his head. He still won't look at Draco. "You think you know. You think you have everything figured out, all of you, and you've no bloody idea." His voice rises, and when he looks at Draco his eyes are dark and wild. Almost frightened, Draco thinks. "It's not just Dolohov, you fool. It's deeper--" He breaks off, and his gaze flicks towards the door, as if he expects it to swing open again. It doesn't, and Lucius looks away.

"What do you mean?" Draco knows he has to take this chance. "What's deeper?"

Lucius shakes his head. "Nothing."

Anger spikes through Draco. He's tired of his father being like this, tired of being the one forced to be the bloody adult. This is his _father_ for Circe's sake, the man who's supposed to have taken care of him, watched out for him, kept him from harm. "Stop it," he says, his voice rising. "Stop bloody protecting them, protecting yourself. Think of me, for once, you bastard!" He presses the back of his hand to his mouth. He doesn't want to do this. Not here where people could be watching. He looks away.. "Just tell me. Please."

Lucius's fingers are curled over the edge of the thin mattress, his shoulders hunched in. He draws in a rough, uneven breath. "Leave," he says, and his voice sounds frayed, fragile. 

"Father." Draco takes a step towards him. A wave of worry floods through him. He hasn't seen his father like this in years. So broken. So weak. Not since that last year of the war. "Don't do this--"

"I said _leave,_ " Lucius shouts, looking up at Draco, and spittle flies from his lips. His eyes are suddenly dark, outraged. Draco takes a step back. His father's on his feet, fists clenched at his sides, his sudden fury almost overpowering in its intensity. "Get out of here. I never asked for a son like you!" His lips curl. "You fucking, sodding _poof_ \--"

Draco slams his fist twice on the door. He needs to get away, needs to be out of this room, away from his shit of a father.

The door swings open again, and Draco stumbles out, his father howling obscenities at him, his heart pounding in his ears, the panic starting to well up inside of him. He barely notices when the door clangs closed behind him; he's starting to shake. His father's always been able to do this to him when his temper surges. It's the drink, Draco thinks. Both when he's pissed out of his mind and when he's craving it. 

And then Granger's there beside him as Rayne sets the wards again, and her hands are on his, her voice quiet and soothing, bringing him back to the hallway, away from his father's anger. 

"Malfoy," she's saying. "It's all right."

Draco looks at her, barely recognising her for a moment. 

"You need to breathe," Granger says, and he does. The rush in his ears fades away. 

"He needs a drink," Draco says, and he thinks he sounds a fool. "He gets like this when he--"

"I know." Granger leads him down the hall to a set of hard wooden chairs. She pushes him into one, then takes the other. Her brown face is shadowed in the dim light of the corridor. "He went into delirium tremens three days ago. We put him on a potion."

"No one told me." Draco looks down at his hands. They've stopped trembling. For the moment. He hates that he's done this here, hates that Granger of all people's seen him like this. He feels deflated. Flat. 

Granger just watches him. "Harry didn't want you to know yet," she says after a moment. "I told him I thought that was a bad idea."

Draco doesn't even have it in him at the moment to be angry with Potter. He'll save it for later when he's alone, when he's locked in his room with a bottle of wine and pillow he can hex into oblivion. He's worn out, the way he always gets when the panic starts to recede. He looks down the corridor at Rayne, then back at Granger. "What are you doing here anyway?"

"I was in my office," Granger says calmly. She's in jeans and an orange Chudley Cannons t-shirt; she's one of the few people Draco knows who can pull off that colour. Unlike Weasley. "I've an alert any time anyone goes into your father's cell. When I saw it was you…" She shrugs. 

"You thought you'd come see if he'd say anything to me." Draco scrubs the heels of his hands across his face. He knows he shouldn't be annoyed. He'd have done the same thing in her shoes. Still, though. Something about being on display at Granger's whim irks him. He looks away. 

Granger's silent for a long moment, then she sighs. "I was hoping he might." She glances over at him. "Do you know what he meant about it not just being Dolohov?"

"No." Draco leans his elbows on his knees, willing himself to settle down. His pulse is still fluttering against his wrists and the tightness in his chest hasn't entirely gone away. "It might not mean anything. Father's been a bit paranoid since the war. It's the drinking, I think. Mother says he's been keeping secrets for years. Things she doesn't even know about, but that she was certain he was hiding. He had a stash of journals he burnt after Christmas, she says. Piled them in the hearth in his rooms and put a match to them. She only knows because he singed the carpet and the house elves had to clean it." He looks at Granger. "They told her most everything that went on in the house."

She studies him. "Would they know what your father was up to?"

"Maybe," Draco says. "Whether they'd talk is a different matter." He leans back, rests his head against the wall. A dull throb's starting to develop at the back of his skull, and he feels nauseous. He just wants to go home and fall across his bed for the rest of the day. He can't, sadly. Blaise is insisting on drinks tonight, Pansy included, and Draco's been putting them off for too long in favour of Potter. Whom he refuses to see before Monday morning now. Potter ought never to have irked him yesterday, he thinks. He shakes his head, trying to focus back on the elves. "But they might have told Mother everything they know, and I can assure you that, at the moment, she wouldn't hesitate to pass whatever they've said on." His gaze drifts back down the hall towards his father's cell. Rayne's gone now; he's alone here with Granger. "Mother's done with Father. As much as she loves him."

"Seems like perhaps you are too." Granger's voice is quiet. 

Draco chews on his lip. "I love my father," he says finally. "But I don't particularly like him at the moment."

"That's fair." Granger stands. So does Draco. They're silent as they walk down the corridor together, then Granger glances over at him. "I'm not sure I could have done what you did," she says. "He's your father."

"I didn't really have a choice," Draco says. He's uncomfortable being praised for arresting his father, if he's honest. What the hell else was he supposed to do? Let the man escape? Draco doesn't know what people expect of him, and he finds it infuriating that they're so surprised at his behaviour. "Someone had to bring him in."

Granger gives him a small smile. "You always have a choice, Malfoy. Isn't that what you just told him?"

"I'm trying to make better decisions." Draco frowns, but he's not annoyed. Not really. "I suppose Potter's getting into my head." He follows Granger around the bend in the corridor. He pauses, then says, "I am sorry, you know."

"For what?" Granger looks over at him, curiosity written across her face. "I mean, you've already said that. Back at the Manor."

"For what Aunt Bella did to you. Not for my actions." Draco stops for a moment; she takes a few steps back towards him. This is difficult, but he wants to say it. Needs to. He wants Granger to understand that he's not his father. That he doesn't want to be. Not now. Not any longer. He takes a slow breath, then exhales, looking over at her. "I know I was a bastard to you in school. And said some terrible things I shouldn't have." He hesitates. "To you."

Granger nods warily. "Yeah. You did."

"I shouldn't have done those sorts of things," Draco says, his voice quiet. "I was a stupid, ignorant kid surrounded by stupid, ignorant adults. That doesn't excuse me or what I did, but I am really sorry. I wish I could take it back, but that's not how it works." His shoulders hunch in a small, wry shrug. "See, I told you Potter was rubbing off on me. Bloody Gryffindors."

Granger's silent; Draco almost thinks she's going to turn around and walk away. Instead she just nods. "All right," she says. "Thanks."

Draco starts to walk on, but Granger catches his arm. 

"Harry said you were different now." She studies his face. "He may be right."

"I'm not entirely." Draco can't look at her. "I'm still an arsehole. I'm still petty and vicious and a complete prick according to Pansy, and I'm fine with that, really. But i don't want to end up where my father is." He studies the way the marble tiles join together, almost seamlessly. "For any reason."

Granger starts walking again. "I don't think you're going to. For one, he's a fucking arsehole. You might just be redeemable."

Draco looks over at her, eyebrow raised.

"Tell Harry I said that," she says, not glancing back at him, "and I'll call you a Slytherin liar to your face." Her mouth twitches to one side.

"Fair enough." Draco thinks he might like this side of Granger. He's also slightly terrified of her, if he's honest. Which makes him like her more.

When they reach the lobby Granger stops and turns towards him. "Sergeant Malfoy," she says, with all the dignity of Croaker's second-in-command. "It's good to be working with you." She holds out her hand. 

Draco takes it without hesitation. "Unspeakable Granger. It's an honour."

For the first time in their lives, they smile at each other. 

Granger turns on her heel and walks away.

***

Jake stands on the cold, dark paving stones outside the gates of Azkaban and shivers in the chill of the North Sea air, pulling his cloak more tightly about him. A storm had blown up last night over the prison, and the late morning air is still chill and damp. He's waiting for Blaise's grandfather to arrive; Jake had offered to go first once they'd got the clearance from Robards and Croaker both. He watches the sea crashing against the cliffs, salty spray exploding into the crisp air, then turns around to glance up at the stone fortress rising above him, long, spiralling towers filled with misery. The swell of human suffering's palpable even this far away--it hit him like a wall the moment he arrived, making his stomach roil and his head ache. Jake loathes prisons and their stink of fear and anguish, which is a cruel joke in his line of work.

A sharp crack sounds out over the roar of the ocean, and then Barachiel Dee stands poised and stately beside Jake, holding his cane and wrapped in a heavy, charcoal, fur-lined travelling cloak. The look on his elegant, stern face is difficult for Jake to read, but Jake doesn't dare try to scan Barachiel Dee mentally. Not without express permission.

"Hello, sir," Jake says, waiting for Dee to indicate their next move. He may be the Unspeakable of record, but this is Dee's show. Jake's fully aware of this. He'd taken on the mission of assisting Dee at Hermione's urging. She'd pointed out that he'd actually formed some sort of connection with the man whilst exorcising Abadzhiev from Blaise's mind and that he'd be a fool not to follow through. Not to mention, Croaker was insistent on it, and if there's one thing Jake's learnt during his time in the British Ministry, it's that Croaker is seldom refused. It's not as if he doesn't understand that. Back in New York, no one wants to take on Graves either. Jake's the only one who even thinks of pushing back, and he's careful about how he does so. Besides, according to Blaise at least, no one on the British Auror or Unspeakable forces is trustworthy enough to accompany his grandfather. 

Or willing, but even Blaise is hesitant to admit that. Not in front of Dee at least.

Jake hides a yawn behind his fist, but Dee catches it. 

"Tired, Legilimens?" Dee's smile is sharp and just a bit mocking. Jake doesn't really mind. He can take Dee poking at him. He grew up with his father's savage sense of humour, after all.

"Not enough sleep, sir," Jake says. "But you know that."

When the Zabini-Dees invited Jake to their small Midsummer gathering last night at the Beaumont with a few family friends, most of them over sixty--and his invitation had made sense to him after he'd walked into the room and seen Blaise sitting alone and bored out of his mind--Jake had hoped to leave after an hour or two. The whole Midsummer celebration is odd to him; American wizardry doesn't really celebrate it, preferring instead to focus on Yule or Christmas if a winter solstice celebration is needed, or the Fourth of July in the summer. Hermione had offered the Weasley Midsummer bonfire to him as well, but Jake hadn't wanted to run into Harry there. He's been careful in recent days to avoid Harry as much as possible, only running into him in meetings neither of them can avoid, given the current political situation. Even then Jake stays on his side of the room and Harry his. It's easier that way. Or so Jake tells himself. There are still moments that he misses Harry, wishes things could go back to the way they were. But Jake knows even when things were good, they were both living in a fantasy world, imagining each other into their own romantic inventions, instead of facing who they actually were and what that meant for their relationship. 

Jake doesn't want to do that any more. He needs space from Harry.

So he'd found himself at the Beaumont at Blaise's side, surrounded by witches and wizards nearly twice his age. Or more. The food had been like nothing Jake had ever tasted, and he'd eaten in some pretty fantastic places in Paris. Olivia Zabini watched Jake closely at every course to make sure he was enjoying it--he thinks there might have been upwards of fourteen, at least that he can remember. By the end of the night he and Blaise were drinking champagne cognac and smoking Cuban cigars on the terrace, the night air around them warm and heavy, talking about Gideon Titus and what a bloody arse he is by still dragging his feet on clearing Blaise's name when the whole of wizarding Britain knows what had happened in the Crickerly Building, thanks to the _Prophet_. The one or two hours Jake had meant to stay merged into something on the order of thirteen, including falling asleep on the couch and being gently roused at seven in the morning by Olivia when Robards' owl had found him.

He'd had to hurry back to Hermione's Islington flat to get ready to meet the Head Auror and the Head of Department of Mysteries. The look she'd given him when he'd slunk out of the Floo had been reproachful at best. He's still not certain she entirely believes he'd fallen asleep on the sofa. Frankly, he wouldn't believe himself either.

Dee looks around, taking in the rough waves and the grey sky that shadows the slick cliffside. "Lovely weather today, what?"

"Perfect for a round or two of tennis, wouldn't you say?" Jake deadpans. Together they look up at the stony facade of Azkaban. Jake shivers involuntarily. Christ, he _really_ doesn't like prisons. "Shall we go in, sir?"

"You'd better shield yourself, Legilimens," Dee warns in a low voice. "There may be much more in there than you're used to."

Jake wishes this were true, wishes he hadn't experienced the misery he has in his life, wishes he hasn't been a bevy of prisons, seen all the agony they bring. Still, there's something about this godforsaken rock surrounded by the sea that feels totally outside of his ken. He takes a moment to strengthen his own psychic perimeter, leaving less open for attack and creating an energy reflection charm just in case. Dee nods when Jake's finished.

"Better," Dee says. He frowns up at the walls of Azkaban. "Built by Ekrizdis, this place was. Back in the fifteenth century." He looks over at Jake, his face grim. "Terrible Dark wizard. Worse even than the Dark Lord, some say. He used to cause shipwrecks to happen, pull the Muggle sailors from the wreckage and torture them." He takes a deep breath. "Turned them into Dementors. Some of them might still be here."

"Jesus," Jake says. 

"One might wish to invoke a deity before entering this place, yes." Dee's cane taps rhythmically as they go through the arched gates and into the fortress itself. "To ward off what's inside."

The security checks start in the foyer. A Hit Wizard comes forward as they approach, her dark cloak swirling around her polished black boots with each step she takes. "May I see your wands and credentials, please?" She keeps her face stern and blank.

Jake brings out wand and his Luxembourg and MACUSA credentials, handing them over, and the Hit Wizard's eyes widen almost imperceptibly as she scans them. She looks up at his face, careful, but Jake can already feel the sharp snap of her Occlumens clicking into place. It wouldn't hold against him--it's nowhere near strong enough--but she doesn't know that. She doesn't have piping on her uniform that indicates the elite force, so she wasn't in St Mungo's with Blaise, Jake thinks. Word must have gotten around. She checks his wand and glances through his credentials before handing them back. "Here you are, Unspeakable Durant." 

She turns. Dee is slouched a bit dramatically on his cane, holding out a wizarding passport and what's clearly a gaudy and not very useful wand. Jake's more than aware that Dee's cane is the instrument of his magic from the ritual he performed over Blaise, but he supposes the show wand is for checks like these. The Hit Wizard is solicitous and careful with him, until she looks at the credentials. Her eyebrows shoot up comically and her mouth forms a tiny moue of surprise. "Wait here a moment," she says.

She comes back with a figure that Jake recognises from some of the Auror and Unspeakable meetings over the past week.

"Durant!" Hassan Shah's handsome face breaks into a smile. "Here was I, wondering when you might be turning up. Granger said you were coming."

"Sergeant Shah. How's being in charge of this place?" Jake smiles in return, shaking Shah's hand enthusiastically and gripping his arm. He likes the man; Shah's one of the good ones, solid and hard-working and set to rise far in the force, if Jake's any judge of character. The British Aurors would be damn fools not to promote him up the ranks. And quickly. The Hit Wizard looks back and forth between them, trying not to gawk.

"Not bad, not bad," Shah says. "A bit grim at times out here, innit? But we do our best, yeah, Burke?"

The Hit Wizard nods. "Yes, sir." She looks a bit taken aback at being spoken to. Much less having her name remembered. Jake knows Hit Wizards; they'd rather be anonymous. It makes it easier to do some of the nastier things their job requires. He thinks it's brilliant of Shah, really, to humanise Burke, to remind her that there are people here who'll remember who she is should she act inappropriately. Peasegood's people are damned sketchy, Jake thinks. He's warned Hermione to watch them; it looks like she's passed that on to the Auror force.

Dee clears his throat, and Shah turns politely. "My apologies. Mr Dee?" Shah extends a hand and Dee shakes it delicately. "It's a pleasure to meet you. Welcome to Azkaban. I'm Sergeant Hassan Shah, currently serving as Interim Auror Liaison whilst a new Warden's appointed. I'll take you to the Dementor Containment Unit."

After Jake and Dee sign in at a desk and Shah chats with the guards--Jake hears him call them Reynaud and Gilbert--Shah leads them down several winding, dank hallways, away from the noise of the human side of the prison.

"This is the oldest part of the complex," Shah says, flicking on a Lumos from the tip of his wand. Jake does the same, casting it a bit stronger for Dee, who doesn't seem to need it. "Ekrizdis's original fortress walls right here." He touches the stones, blackened with age, then shudders. "The Unspeakables thought it'd be the best place for containing the Dementors for now, since it's easily shielded off from the rest of the prison."

Each of them stoops as they go through a small, narrow doorway. Evidently Ekrizdis was a damn short wizard, Jake thinks. There's a wall with a swirling screen of spellwork visible. Jake's suddenly curious; he's never encountered anything quite like it.

Dee walks right up to it, extending a well-manicured hand to touch the aura above it. His dark brown fingers glow a blue-green around the tips. "Ah, I haven't seen one of these in a bit."

Shah and Jake trade glances. "It's a Spirit Screen, sir." Shah's voice is cautious, carefully modulated. "They're rare as rocking horse shit."

"They didn't use to be. This one needs a bit of repair." Dee smoothes his palm over the grey swirling mass, and streaks of turquoise appear over it. "Yes. They're tearing at it, aren't they? Because they're confused."

Jake watches Dee assess the screen with careful interest. You never know when arcane skills might come in handy.

Dee murmurs a few words in a language that feels very, very old against Jake's ears, and the grey swirling mass is suddenly stronger, more tangible. Spirals of bright blue twist through the grey.

Shah blinks. "Bugger all. You do seem to know your way around this, yeah?"

Jake tries not to laugh.

"May we go in?" Dee's tone is formal. "I'd like to see how they're doing in there."

Jake's stomach drops a bit at the prospect. He can already sense the intensity of the other side, the grief and anger and depression swirling around, pressing at the containment shield. He's glad that he'd put up more shields, but he's not sure how he will focus if anything gets through.

"Right." Shah produces a small compass that is clearly keyed to the screen--it's very old and has the words _Spirits See All But Do Not Pass_ inscribed upon it. "Touch your wands to this and then to the screen. It'll help you go in and out."

Jake touches his wand. Dee takes out the pretend wand, but then leans heavily on his cane so that both pieces of wood touch the compass.

"The ward's only preventative for the souls of the disembodied," Shah continues. "Least that's what the Unspeakables say, but you know that lot. More heads in the clouds more times than not." He glances over to Jake. "Present company excepted, yeah? Still, they say you ought to be able to get back through even without your wands. If you encounter any trouble, touch the centre of the screen on the other side, and it'll set off an alarm and let you out." He hesitates. "I reckon. Nowt's gone through there but Dementors so far."

Dee huffs. He clearly doesn't plan to be separated from his wand, and isn't afraid in the least. Jake wishes he weren't about to piss his own pants. "Can you give us a moment, Sergeant Shah?"

Jake thinks that Shah looks none too keen to stay near this entrance to a containment unit full of Dementors. He can't blame him--Jake's terrified himself.

"Yeah," Shah scans Jake's face for a moment for confirmation; Jake nods, and Shah gestures towards the door with his hand. "I'll be down at the end of the hall."

"Thank you, Sergeant," Dee says imperiously. The iron in his voice is impressive. Even after twenty years of exile from Britain, he's still clearly accustomed to command.

After Shah withdraws, Dee turns his elegant, hooded eyes on Jake's face. Jake had thought they were light brown, but they're a deep, dark golden like a lion's fur, Jake realises as he stares into them for the first time. There are hidden depths there, frightening ones at that. Jake has a feeling he could get lost if he looks too long. He averts his gaze.

"You're afraid," Dee says. It's not a question.

Jake inhales, holds for the count of three, and then breathes out. "I'm unsure," he counters, looking at Dee's face again. The glimmer of a smile passes over it.

"You'll be fine," Dee says. "Don't be afraid of them. Have pity instead. These are the remnants of men, Legilimens. Your job is to move among them and understand them. Don't oppose them. They'll feed off of your fear and your anger. Empty your heart and try to let yourself see them for what they are, not what you think they should be. Don't make them your demons." He hesitates. "You've a talent for this. I've said that before. But this will be a test, do you understand? Of your nerve and your skills."

Jake plants his feet and centres himself. "I can do it."

Barachiel nods then and touches his cane against the screen. Ripples of blue swirl out around the grey, and he steps through. Jake glances back at Shah, still down the hall, then draws in a deep breath and, putting the tip of his wand to the grey mass, follows. 

He finds himself in what looks like a huge bird cage, iron bars curve gracefully up around him towards the open ceiling of a stone courtyard. Slick glass arches over the bars, and frost flowers are etched across its surface, almost all the way up, refracting the bright midsummer light into a cool, grey dusk. It's oddly beautiful, Jake thinks, looking up to the point where the dark bars meet. 

And then his gaze falls down to the throng of Dementors milling about the cage, their ragged, dark robes trailing across the frozen stones of the courtyard. Something raw and painful wells up in Jake's chest, so harsh and angry and bitter that it nearly takes his breath away. He staggers for a moment, falling to his knees, then catches himself on one of the iron bars. His fingers brush the glass, and it turns a bright, glistening blue before disappearing in a ripple up along the side of the cage. Some of the anguish Jake feels bleeds away, enough so that he can push himself back up, his legs wobbling just a bit. 

Dee's in the middle of the Dementors, his back ramrod straight as he moves around them, stopping to peer beneath the hood of one, to let his hand brush over the robe of another. Slowly the Dementors turn towards Dee, coming close one by one, almost as if they're sniffing him out, then drifting back. He's whispering something that Jake doesn't understand, but the Dementors seem to. A soft murmur goes through the crowd of wraiths, like a rustle of dry leaves on an autumn day. 

Jake steps a bit further into the courtyard. It's hard for him to do; the emotions roiling through him are almost overwhelming in their intensity. He tries to keep them clamped down, tries to push them to the back of his head. He takes a deep breath and lets it out, willing his mind to empty. 

The courtyard is bitterly cold, even for the North Sea. Jake wraps his cloak tighter around him, trying to ward off the chill. It doesn't help. He feels out of place, moving through the Dementors like this. It's not that he's never seen one. He's spent too much time in prisons not to have encountered a Dementor or two. But this is different. This is him walking through two hundred, three hundred of the creatures, feeling them shift around him, feeling the tendrils of despair and hatred and confusion seeping from them. He's never seen so many--it's would be awe-inspiring if he could master his terror.

A Dementor brushes past him, and Jake gasps at the cold fear that goes through him as the edge of its robe drags across his shoulder. The Dementor turns to look at him, and suddenly Jake gets the sense of a man beneath the robe, a tall, blond-haired Norwegian sailor, with broad shoulders and a quick smile, who'd left behind a wife and two tow-haired boys to earn money on a sea voyage that he'd never returned from. The man's anger and grief wash over Jake, filling his mind, and Jake stumbles, his knees nearly giving way. It's almost too much, and Jake looks up to see the Dementor's hood coming closer to him, bending towards his face as a soft sucking feeling prickles across his skin.

"Stop." Dee's voice is quiet but it rings out across the courtyard. 

The Dementor pulls back, and Jake falls to the ground again, his legs unable to hold him up. Around him Dementors are sliding back, giving him space. He gasps for breath, his arms shaking as they keep him from sprawling across the cold stones. Two black brogues stop in front of him, columned on either side by a fur-lined cloak. 

"Get up," Dee says, almost gently. 

Jake pushes himself up. "That…" He looks around at the Dementors. They're turned away from both him and Dee, almost as if they're ashamed. Jake steps over to one, and he lets his hand brush its sleeve. It shifts beneath his touch, looking over at him, and Jake sees an image of a Spanish man, dark haired and small, with a face weathered and brown from squinting into the sun from the deck of a ship. He reaches out to another Dementor; this one's a woman, grey-haired and pale, put to death for breaking the Statute of Secrecy two hundred years past. 

He looks at Dee. "My God," he says, and Dee nods. 

"You see." 

Jake feels ill. It's sudden and violent, the heaving in his stomach. "I'm sorry. I have--" He can't even finish the sentence before he's stumbling over to the shield, pressing his wand against it before he stumbles through. He's on his knees on the other side, retching onto the stones, Shah running up to him as he spills his breakfast into the corner of the room. 

He feels, rather than hears, Dee cross back over. Shah's hand is on Jake's back, and he's saying, "You all right, mate?" Jake nods and leans back, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth. He can still taste the vomit; it makes his stomach flip again. He wills it to settle as he looks up at Dee.

"You did well," Dee says. "Some people go mad in a moment surrounded by that many Dementors." 

Jake's eyes are still watering. "You might have mentioned that." His throat feels raw and abraded. 

"I didn't think you'd have a problem, Legilimens." Dee leans on his cane, watching Jake with those deep golden eyes. "And I was right."

Jake supposes he might have a point, although he thinks that vomiting up everything he's eaten so far this day might be a bit of an issue. But his mind's still intact. He thinks. He closes his eyes, letting the anger and fury seep out of him. They're not his feelings, he realises. He'd just carried them out of the room with him. "They're still people, aren't they?" Jake asks after a moment, his voice shaking a bit. "Or parts of them."

Dee nods. "Dementors aren't creatures. Not really. They're humans, caught between life and death. Not fully gone, like a ghost who's chosen to remain on this side of the veil, but no longer alive either. It's a liminal existence, and it leaves them lonely and full of grief and rage." 

"They say you made one once," Shah says. He's watching Dee closely. "They right?"

Dee gives him a faint smile. "The ubiquitous _they_. Yes. They're correct. I made one once. Like a fool." He looks away. "In my defence, I was attempting to keep a man from death, but I was too late, and my actions cursed him to a half-life like this." There's a deep sadness around his eyes. "It was my mistake, and I've regretted it ever since."

Shah studies him, then nods. He looks over at Jake. "Okay?"

"I'm fine." Jake's finally stopped trembling. He draws in an almost steady breath. "So we're confining a group of human spirits in there. Angry ones, trapped on earth."

"Whom we've been using," Dee says calmly, "for our own purposes for centuries. Wizardingkind has always been so very good about forcing other magical entities into working for us, haven't we, then taking over the efforts of their labour? House elves. Goblins. To name a few." His mouth turns down in distaste. "And the good people of wizarding Britain fear me, call me evil for my necromancy. Perhaps they ought to look closer within themselves."

Jake and Shah are silent for a moment, then Shah says, "The Ministry's talking about destroying them, yeah? Bringing in some muckety-muck to get rid of them permanently." He looks at Dee. "Reckon that's something you wouldn't want to happen."

"No," Dee says. "I wouldn't."

Shah nods, chewing his lip. "What it is, right, is it's Luxembourg's idea," he says after a moment. "I'm not to know, yeah? It's just it's come up in a meeting or two that I've been at, and they've hushed it up proper quick, but I'm not a daft apeth, me. But the ICW, they've been making noise about this whole cock-up, and now they're banging on about the Dementors going bad, and yeah." He looks over at Jake. "That's it. No more Dementors."

"They can't do that," Jake says. He's argued this already with Hermione. Now he feels even more strongly about it. "If they're still human--"

"You think our Ministry will care?" Dee sounds tired. "Do you think yours does, after all it's done in recent years?"

When Jake looks over, Shah's frowning. "Robards says MACUSA want to take them. For anti-terrorist work, innit?"

Jake shakes his head, a chill running through him that has nothing to do with the disembodied souls but with the living. He's been in the extrajudicial prisons--wizarding and No-Maj--America's set up since the Towers came down. He knows what goes on there and can imagine exactly what a Dementor might be useful for. It's why he'd left for more diplomatic assignments. He hadn't been able to stomach what he'd been asked to do and that was only the beginning. Since then, Jake's done what he can to speak out about enhanced magical interrogation, in New York and in Luxembourg itself. Nothing's been done; even the people who say they agree with him haven't pushed any sort of legislation. 

He doubts anyone's going to give a damn about the rights of Dementors. Still. 

"We have to try," he says. He meets Dee's gaze. "I can't just sit back and let them destroy…" He looks back at the shield, thinking about the sailors, about the old woman. "We've got to find another way."

"And if it's dangerous?" Dee asks. He looks between Jake and Shah. "Going up against three wizarding governments. At the very least." His eyebrow goes up. "Including the two writing your paycheques?"

Shah shrugs. "Adds a bit of spice to life, yeah?"

"I have to agree," Jake says. 

Dee smiles at them, and Jake feels a faint frisson of fear. "I hoped you'd say that." He walks across the room to the doorway, his cane tapping against the stones. He glances back. "Well, come on then. If I'm to keep that lot in there from disappearing, I've some research to do."

Jake's not certain he wants to know what that might involve. He looks at Shah. "You really think we should go up against the ICW?" he asks under his breath. He knows how they work; he's spent the past few years in the belly of the beast.

"What the hell," Shah murmurs. "I never wanted to be Supreme Mugwump anyway." He grins at Jake, then looks over at Dee, who's ducking beneath the doorway. "He's a mad old bastard, but I reckon he's not wrong."

No, Jake thinks. Dee's not. 

He follows Shah through the doorway, casting one last glance back at the grey surface of the Spirit Shield. For the briefest moment, he thinks he sees the reflection of a body, tall and broad-shouldered. It disappears in a swirl of turquoise. 

Jake turns and walks down the hallway, his boots echoing in the silence.

***

The new mixed Muggle and wizarding bar in Soho that Blaise has brought them to is posh and quiet, with long, velvet banquettes and a members-only list at the door. Draco adjusts his carefully knotted Hermes tie and smoothes a hand over his navy linen suit. He wonders if he's underdressed for evening here. He needn't have worried however--Blaise's wide, bright smile and membership card is all it takes to get them in. He even greets one of the bartenders by name before they sit down. The place is crowded, but not terribly so for a Saturday night, given that there's a dress code and an emphasis on cocktails rather than a dance floor.

"How did you find out about this?" Pansy asks, settling herself on the smooth plum velvet stool at the corner of the bar. She's wearing a short black dress and heels; her mouth's perfectly crimson. Draco's always impressed at how high her heels are for walking around London's uneven streets. She must have some sort of ankle-stabilising charm on them; he'd have snapped a leg in two by now if he were her.

Blaise looks a bit surprised at Pansy's question. "Well, it's a venture by the young guns at the club. We wanted a place that would stay open late on the weekends." He makes a face. "The Athenaeum prefers to roll up the carpet a bit too early for our liking."

"By young guns, you mean anyone under seventy." Draco never misses out on an opportunity of taking the piss when Blaise mentions the Athenaeum, although he also always jumps at the chance to dine with him there--the potatoes dauphinoise are bloody good, in his opinion. He doesn't want to think of the last time they planned to lunch there. They'd never made it, thanks to Dolohov and Abadzhiev. He looks away. 

Blaise laughs. "Quite, old man. Although some of the old guard could drink us under the table. Mark my words. They've been pickled in booze for fifty years."

Draco winces at this, thinking about his father for a moment and the potions Granger'd had to give him. It must show on his face; Blaise shoots him a worried look. 

"All right there, Draco?" Blaise asks.

Pansy eyes Draco speculatively. "He's just worried about his undereye bags tomorrow. Don't worry, darling. Although you are as red as a lobster--with your hair, Potter will think it's Gryffindor pride to shag you."

Draco flips two fingers at her. His bloody shoulders still hurt. "Fuck off, love." Pansy just laughs. 

She breaks off as the younger of the bar runners comes over to take their order. He's a lovely, twinky angelic figure just about their age, and Draco wishes he could just chat him up, take him home for a quick shag--Potter and his mother be damned. Instead, Draco orders a Rosita--a campari and tequila classic, according to the expensively engraved and leather-clad cocktail menu in front of them. Pansy goes with a cucumber gin and elderflower concoction calling itself a martini, and Blaise orders an old-fashioned.

"So, Midsummer Nightmare stories?" Blaise leans against the slick black stretch of the bar and raises an eyebrow. "Who'd like to start?"

Pansy quietly bites her lips, looking away, and Draco studies the haunted expression on her face. That can only mean one person--Tony Goldstein. Damn. It's been months since Pans has run into him. Draco owes it to her to stall a bit until she's ready.

"Not much for me," Draco says. "Just a spot of furtive shagging in a meadow." He tries to smirk, but he's not sure he manages. Right now he feels as if his heart's dashed into pieces, but he doesn't want to talk about that yet. "Mother nagged the hell out of me when I came home with a sunburn _and_ love bites," he says, trying to keep his voice light. He doesn't want his friends to know how conflicted his feelings are about Potter. Better that they think it's just a good fuck here and there. He watches as the bartender makes their drinks down at the other corner of the bar, garnishing the glasses.

Blaise looks appalled. "How many times have I told you, Malfoy? Complexion charms are not optional. Jesus, man. It's like you want to suffer." Blaise's own skincare regimen could easily rival Draco's own; one of Blaise's vanities is his smooth skin. Pansy thinks they're both bloody mad. Half the time she falls asleep without scrubbing off her eyeliner, waking up the next morning to dark circles smeared beneath her eyes. Blaise reaches over and tugs at Draco's collar, exposing his reddened skin. "You're an idiot."

Draco shrugs, then winces as his shirt moves across his skin. He has a healing salve on it, but it's still a bit uncomfortable at times. "I wasn't exactly thinking about that at the moment. Nor was I planning on having a shag in a meadow." 

"How rustic." Blaise gives Draco an amused smile. "Did you do some kind of queer fertility ritual?"

"Don't be rude, darling," Pansy says. She looks tired, like she's not slept well. It worries Draco. "Besides, that's Beltane. Not Midsummer."

Draco's saved from responding by the arrival of their drinks. The runner gives him a wink as he sets Draco's Rosita down, and for a moment, Draco's tempted. It's not really that he wants anything from the bloke--although he is randy and frustrated and thinking of Potter and their tumble yesterday in the field. It's more that he could, and that knowledge cheers him. He'd like to think he's not that bloody pathetic for Potter. 

Even if he suspects he is.

Pansy shoots him a sharp look as the runner walks away, his bar towel flipped over his shoulder. "Stop flirting. Merlin knows you're getting enough as it is." She sounds jealous, he thinks. 

Draco sighs and takes a sip of his cocktail. It's strong and bitter, and it clears his head. "Isn't it funny? The harder I try to be good, the worse it gets." He relaxes in his chair. This feels good. Familiar, even, the three of them sitting around the corner of the crowded bar with cocktails, mocking one another's sex lives. He's missed this lately. It's been far too long, and he's been far too obsessed with sodding Potter.

Blaise downs a solid swig of his old-fashioned. "Define worse. As I recall, there's nothing bad about riding cock." He sets his glass back down. "Or having one's cock ridden, for that matter."

Pansy and Draco look at him, a bit surprised. Although Blaise has always been unapologetically bisexual, particularly in their school days, they haven't heard him talk about men in some time beyond general appreciation. In fact, Blaise has been practically ascetic for months, Draco thinks. It's not terribly unusual, that. Blaise goes through spots when he's bored with sex, when the idea of going out for a quick pull feels a bit loathsome to him. Draco sometimes wonders if that's the Veela in Blaise, turned off by an unchallenging chase, or if he's reacting against his mother's newest paramour. Perhaps it's a bit of both. Blaise just shrugs whenever Draco asks and says he just doesn't give a fuck, that it's easier to use his hand.

"Is this a new interest, Blaise?" Pansy asks, a bit tartly. She's already drained half her cocktail. She eyes him. "Or, perhaps, a new American interest?"

The look on Blaise's face is frozen for a moment, then he recovers, but Draco sees his hesitation. And that says it all, really.

"Wait, are you already shagging Durant?" Draco is a bit too shocked to be discreet. Pansy shushes him, and Blaise looks around.

"No," he says in a comfortable, low tone. "Of course not. That would be completely inappropriate. For one, he's half-assigned to bloody Titus, who's still dilly-dallying on the damned investigation of me. For another, he just broke up with our guv, who _you're_ shagging." Blaise scowls at Draco. "Which makes the whole damned mess far too complicated for me, ta ever so, you fucking wanker." He takes another sip of his drink. "I'm actually not regretting casting Cruciatus on you right now."

Draco blinks. "So you want to be?" He folds his arms on the table. "Fucking him, I mean. Not the Cruciatus bit."

"Well." Blaise considers for a moment. "It hasn't come up." He shrugs. "So no, probably not. Honestly, it's probably just that I could use a good shag right now. It's been a bit too long, and you know how I get."

They do, actually. The flip side of Blaise getting bored with sex is that after a while of celibacy and masturbation, he goes a bit sex-mad and fucks anyone who walks past. "Find someone else," Draco snaps. "The only one of us allowed to make shite life choices right now is me."

Pansy drains the rest of her cocktail and sets the empty glass down with a sharp thump against the slick black bartop. "So I saw Tony at my parent's party. Evidently Mother invited him since he's doing so much work with Papa at the moment."

Blaise and Draco both hesitate then, careful, waiting for her to say more. They shoot each other looks, Blaise widening his eyes and Draco shaking his head. Pansy isn't really over Tony, Draco knows. She'd just cut him out of her life when he'd gone back to his wife. And wasn't that a bloody shitshow, he thinks. He doesn't know who'd been more miserable, Tony or Eva. Or Pansy for that matter. 

"He's says he's separated from her. For good this time." Pansy's voice is tinged with sadness. "And he kissed me, the sodding arsehole." She picks up her glass, then sees that it's empty. "Circe, I fucking hate him."

She doesn't, and they all know it. 

Blaise motions for another round. "Well, at least you didn't shag him, which makes you less of a tragic, pathetic figure than Our Draco over here and his utterly unhealthy obsession with the guv." He points a finger towards Draco. "Which is still one of the stupider things you're doing at the moment, in my personal opinion. I just want to go on record with that."

He's not wrong. Draco ignores him, though, and takes Pansy's hand. "Pans, you know you're worth ten of that bastard."

Pansy accepts the sympathy for a moment, then pulls back. "Well, I had to leave sobbing from my own parents' Midsummer party. But I guess that's not my most dramatic exit to date." She laughs, a bit hollowly. "At least nothing burst into flame this time."

It's true, Draco thinks, remembering the time she'd had a raging row with Camilla in the middle of the dancing and set an entire centrepiece alight. It'd been a peacock-themed ball, and the stench of burnt feathers had been awful. Draco can still smell it. They had to have been fifteen, or maybe sixteen that year.

"Maybe you should set fire to Tony?" Blaise suggests, clearly remembering the incident. 

"I wish," Pansy mutters, looking away. "Knowing him, he wouldn't even burn, just smile and tell me he's there for me when I need him." She grimaces. "He's such a fucking Ravenclaw."

Draco's suddenly glad for his arrangement with Potter. Even though it's not all he could hope for, at least it's not the suffering Pans is going through, wearing her heart on her sleeve like this. He hopes his best friends will reign him in before whatever this is with Potter reaches tragic proportions, although part of him worries he's skirting the edge right now.

The next round comes, and they all take their drinks. The runner slips Draco a scrap of serviette with his number scrawled across it, and Draco pockets it with a blank face. The way his life is going, who knows anymore. He shoots the man a small smile when he looks back at the table.

Blaise and Pansy both eye him, but say nothing.

"So my mother is driving me mad," Draco says, raising his drink to his lips. There's even more tequila in this one, and it smells like a fresh bottle. He obviously needs to keep flirting with the runner. "I love her dearly, but she's bored stuck in the flat, and without house elves to boss around, she's turned that on me. And my things. She's reorganised not only my kitchen but also my bookshelves and seems set on generally making my life hell."

"You mean, she's keeping you from sleeping with Potter." Blaise's face is calm, but his mouth is twitching just enough to annoy Draco.

"Arsehole. But yes," Draco says. "Hence the shagging in field. Do keep up, Blaise." He pauses. The tequila's starting to go to his head. "Circe, but he's got a great prick, you know."

Pansy puts her hands over her ears. "Stop it. We're going to be in the incident room on Monday and all I'll be able to think about is you and the guv naked and al fresco with pricks. Although," she considers. "I suppose it's not the worst visual in the world. He is wicked fit."

"So am I," Draco says, sharply, and Pansy makes a terrible face. 

"It's like imagining your brother," she says. "I'll be mentally scarred for life. Potter, on the other hand…" Pansy taps her finger against the rim of her glass and laughs. "I wouldn't mind walking in on him in the showers."

Draco frowns at her. "Hussy."

Pansy grins at him. "I rather think I'm not the slag at the table." She has a point.

"Still, old man," Blaise tilts his own glass toward Draco. "Shouldn't you be a bit more careful, what with your new sergeant's stripes and all? There are rules you ought to be following, and if it weren't just us on the team, you'd be in bloody hot water. At least you know Pans and I have your back."

Draco nods, a rebellious knot in the centre of his chest. Maybe it's just his hatred of authority, or his own self-sabotaging nature, but he doesn't want to follow orders on this one, doesn't want to play by the rules. "Yeah. Robards warned me when he promoted me that my head would be on the chopping block if it came out publicly." He scowls. "Potter'd get off scot-free, I'm certain. At least that's what Robards implied."

Blaise almost spits up the mouthful of old-fashioned, whilst Pansy sets her glass down with a loud thunk. "Robards knows?" Pansy's face is suddenly ashen, her voice barely above a whisper. "What the fuck, Draco? Have you lost your bloody damned mind? "

It's Draco's turn to lean back and casually look to who might be listening in. So far, it's mostly them and the runner at this corner; everyone else is clustered around the other end, near the bartender, but you never can be too careful. He palms his wand under the table and says a subtle Muffliato.

"There's been so much going on." Draco had meant to tell them; he really had. It's just there'd been meetings, and they haven't had a chance like this, when it was just the three of them to talk. Potter's always there, or Draco's heading off with him. He makes an apologetic gesture. "I did mean to bring it up, but we haven't had many chances. Someone turned in the mobile that I'd left at the Thestral's Wing and, well, Robards figured it out."

"You left your mobile at the Thestral's Wing," Pansy says. He nods. "I'm assuming there was something incriminating on it?"

"Enough that Robards knew." Draco looks down at his drink. He feels a right tit at the moment. 

Pansy and Blaise both take a bracing sip of their drinks.

Well that must have been awkward," Blaise says after a moment.

Draco nods. "I suppose we have to assume he sees our call log anyway." He waves the runner back over. They're all going to need hangover potion tonight, Draco thinks.

Pansy nods eloquently. "Shit."

Draco subtly drops the Muffliato before the runner arrives at their end of the bar. When he flashes him a smile, Draco smiles in return.

"What?" he asks when the runner's out of earshot and the Muffliato's raised again. "I'm just being friendly."

"Bollocks," Pansy says. "And if you keep it up, I'm going to help the guv hex you senseless, you fucker."

"So, just to be clear, are you and Potter dating?" Blaise has a speculative look on his face.

"Fuck, no." Draco is a bit more emphatic than he means to be. But it's nothing he and Potter have ever discussed. Not really. They don't date. They fuck, and they fuck brilliantly. It's all either of them want. Draco tells himself he's certain of that. "We're just sneaking around and shagging."

"How many days did you see him last week?" Blaise asks. "More than two, and you're dating."

"I'll tell you if you tell me about Durant," Draco says, his irritation rising. He'd spent three nights with Potter since last weekend, not to mention their picnic shag, but he's not about to tell Blaise that.

Pansy sighs. "Boys, boys. You're always so bloody competitive. Besides, none of us is in the running for the good behaviour award. In my family, Daisy has that locked down." Draco's about to protest when Pansy starts. "Oh my God. Speaking of my family and Midsummer, I forgot to tell you."

Blaise leans in. "What? Tony now has two cocks, one more spectacular than the other?"

Pansy laughs in spite of herself. "No, you arsehole. But he _was_ in bed with Abadzhiev. They did business together."

Draco's eyebrows almost hit his hairline. "What? Jesus Christ, Pans. That could be a conflict of interest." From the cagey look on her face, Draco suspects that she's not saying something about her father's interests as well.

Pansy scowls fiercely. "Don't even get me started about the Code of Conduct, Malfoy. Just because you're a sergeant now doesn't mean I can't set Millie after you."

A shiver of fear runs down Draco's spine. He can only imagine how epic the bollocking would be. Honestly, he's more afraid of Millie's wrath that just about anyone else's. When she tears strips off of you, they stay torn for weeks, if not years.

"You're going to need to bring it up to Potter," Draco says. 

Pansy looks unhappy. She twists her glass between her hands. "I know." She doesn't want to, he can tell, and she's conflicted about that. If she weren't, she wouldn't have told him and Blaise. 

"Oi, focus on me and the damned Professional Standards investigation. Fucking Gideon Titus's a menace." Blaise scowls at them both. "It's like you've all bloody forgotten about it."

"You're going to have that dropped," Pansy says with a sigh. "You know Millie will come through."

Blaise twists his glass between his fingers, leaving wet rings across the bar. "I hope so. Only I'd like to get my life back, _Prophet_ be damned."

They all clink glasses and drink to that. No one likes publicity, especially not Slytherins.

After one more round, Pansy stands up, only wobbling slightly. "You know we'll pay for it in the morning," she says with a yawn. "I adore you both, and it's been brilliant, but it's already past midnight, and I'm pissed enough to fall face first in my bed." She frowns. "Alone, alas."

Blaise pets her hair. "I'll take you home," he says, and Pansy bats his hands away. 

"I'm not sleeping with you, you prat." She yawns again. "I don't care how randy you are or what your Veela hormones are up to."

They all stumble into the back of the bar where the Floo's hidden away from the Muggle clientele. It's tiny, but perfectly serviceable. The runner hovers a bit, obviously hoping Draco'll wait until his shift's done, but Draco ignores him. A meaningless shag's not really what he wants. He's not certain he wants a shag at all, to be honest. He just wants to curl up against Potter's chest, listen to the sound of his heartbeat, feel the warmth of Potter's arms around him.

Pansy gives them both a quick, inebriated kiss before she Floos off to her flat, her shoes already off and dangling from her fingertips. Blaise looks over at Draco. 

"You all right, old man?" he asks. "With the guv?"

Draco hesitates, then he nods. "It's fine," he says, his voice only slurring a little, but he knows Blaise's aware he's lying. 

Blaise just shakes his head. "Be careful, Draco," he says. "You're playing with fire here, you know. If you don't look out, you're the one who's going to be burnt and blistered. Not him."

"I know,' Draco says. He looks away, studying the smooth, far too modern curve of the Floo mantel. 

Blaise sighs. "You're a damned idiot sometimes, but I love you." He squeezes Draco's arm, and then he's gone in whoosh of green flames.

Draco reaches for the small brass box of Floo powder on the edge of the mantel. With a pinch of silver powder between his fingertips, he realises he could go anywhere. Acting on a whim, he throws it into the flickering flames, says "Twelve Grimmauld Place," and steps in.

He supposes the worst he can do is beg Potter to undo the locks or get spit back out at the club and have to go home. But, to his everlasting surprise, he's stumbling out of the fireplace and into the library at Grimmauld Place. Potter must have changed the wards and kept them that way. A warmth blossoms in Draco's chest at the thought. 

Whilst he's musing in the dark of the library, Potter comes downstairs, the tip of his wand glowing with a Lumos. He's shirtless and wearing a thin pair of boxers and nothing else. He looks bloody gorgeous, all golden skin and mussed hair. Draco's too pissed to get properly hard, but he does feel his prick stir a bit at the sight. Potter looks worn out.

"It is you," Potter looking at him. His glasses are off, and he's squinting a bit. "Are you pissed?"

Draco waves a hand. "I'm a little tipsy."

"You know it's the middle of the night, yeah?" Potter comes closer. "Do you want coffee?"

Draco shakes his head. The room tips a little, and his bum hits the arm of the sofa. He sits on it, trying to pretend that he meant to. "No." He looks over at Potter. "The wards let me in."

"Yeah." Potter looks worn out, but he smiles at Draco. "I thought it might be a good thing. You know. With you coming and going."

"Oh," Draco says, and Potter's in front of him then. "You didn't tell me.'

"I was going to on Monday," Potter says.

Draco reaches out and runs a fingertip down Potter's chest. "You're handsome, you know."

"Thanks." Potter catches Draco's hand and threads his fingers through Draco's. "You're definitely pissed."

Draco looks up at him. "A little. It doesn't mean I'm not right."

Potter smoothes Draco's hair back behind his ear. "Who've you been drinking with?" There's an undertone in Potter's voice that makes Draco shiver. 

"Does it matter?" Draco asks. He fucking hope it does. "Because a very cute bar runner handed me his mobile number--"

Potter's mouth captures his, and Draco's breath catches. He loves being kissed by Potter, feeling Potter's teeth scrape his lip, opening himself up to the press of Potter's tongue. His hands reach for Potter's hips, gripping them tightly, thumbs hooking in the waistband of Potter's boxers. Potter's fingertips are on Draco's jaw, firm at first, then stroking featherlight along Draco's throat. Draco feels as if he's floating. 

When Potter pulls away, Draco draws in a quivery breath. "Oh," he says. Potter's thumb drags over Draco's lips. 

"It matters," Potter says. 

Draco feels hot and prickly across his whole body. "Blaise and Pansy," he says. "That's all."

"I wasn't invited?" Potter smiles down at him. His eyes are so deep and green. Draco thinks they're beautiful. 

"Slytherins only," Draco murmurs. He wants Potter to kiss him again. He slides his hands up Potter's chest. Potter catches them, presses his mouth to Draco's knuckles. 

"I'll not be offended then," Potter says.

"You shouldn't be." Draco tips his head back, and his hair falls against his shoulders. "Kiss me." He's almost forgiven Potter for leaving him alone last night, his only Midsummer company his mother. 

Potter laughs, soft and warm. "Demanding, are we?" His fingertips brush Draco's cheek before he leans in again and kisses Draco, letting his mouth move slowly, hotly across Draco's. It's a careful kiss, slow and gentle, and it makes Draco's toes curl in his Italian leather shoes. When they pull apart, Potter's cheeks are flushed, and Draco can feel the soft swell of Potter's prick against his thigh. "Better?" Potter asks.

"A bit." Draco's so tired. He leans his forehead against Potter's firm belly. His fingers trace the outline of Potter's cock through his boxers. He can feel the tequila and Campari kicking in harder. "I think I want to sleep."

Potter shifts, moving his prick away from Draco's hand. "Do you need help getting home?"

Draco reaches for Potter again, touches the skin of his chest. It feels smooth and good. "No. I just want to sleep with you." He hesitates. "No sex though. Just sleeping." He stops and looks up at Potter through a fall of hair. "Unless you want me to suck you." His fingers slip down to the edge of Potter's boxers. "Because I would."

"Malfoy," Potter says, and he pulls Draco's hands away again. "You're too pissed for this."

"I'm not," Draco says, but he yawns widely. He yelps when Potter scoops him up, his legs dangling over Potter's arms. 'What're you doing--"

Potter carries him out of the library. "Taking you to bed, Malfoy. Where you're going to sleep, as much as I'd love to have that gorgeous mouth on me."

Draco's already half-dozing against Potter's chest when they make it up the stairs to the bedroom. Potter settles him on edge of the bed, slipping Draco's jacket off his shoulders. 

"I miss you when I'm not here," Draco murmurs. He tugs ineffectually at the knot of his tie, and Potter moves Draco's hands away, gently, before loosening the tie and pulling it over Draco's head.

"Do you?" Potter asks, and Draco nods.

"It's stupid of me," Draco says, and his fingers fumble with the buttons of his shirt. He gets it off somehow, along with his shoes and his trousers. Potter helps, and Draco pulls him down onto the bed with him, their limbs tangling. Draco kisses Potter again, letting his lips barely brush Potter's. He can feel Potter's hardness against him, but Potter pushes his hands away when he reaches for him. 

"Sleep, Malfoy," Potter says in his ear, and he wraps himself around Draco, pulling Draco up against his warm, firm chest. Draco feels like he's come home. Not that he'll tell Potter that. He's not entirely pissed. 

He thinks.

The house gives a contented creak from its eaves, and as he slips into sleep, Draco thinks he smells the scent of rose petals drifting around them.

Potter's arms tighten around him.

Draco sleeps.

***

Harry leaves Malfoy sleeping, curled on his side, arms wrapped around a pillow. The rose petals have been cleaned off from the bed, as best Harry can. There's still one or two in Malfoy's hair; Harry tries to pick them out without waking him up. He sets a hangover potion and a bottle of paracetamol on the nightstand beside the bed, along with a quick note telling him he'll be back by mid-afternoon.

He doesn't mention where he's going. 

The sun's warm and bright through the windows on the staircase landings as Harry slip down them, his trainers in one hand, careful not to make any noise. Harry's tired; he'd been nearly asleep when Malfoy'd stumbled in last night, making enough noise to wake the dead, and he hadn't been able to go back to sleep until hours later. Fuck, but just kissing Malfoy makes Harry hard and desperate, and there's a part of him that thinks he ought to have let Malfoy suck him off before carrying him upstairs. He knows that would have been wrong, though. Malfoy was too pissed to know what he was doing, and the last thing Harry wants is Malfoy to wake up, wondering what the fuck Harry'd let him do. 

So Harry'd waited until Malfoy was sound asleep and then he'd slipped out of the bed, still covered in those damned rose petals--Christ, but Harry hates his house sometimes--and he'd wanked himself raw in the en suite shower, watching as his spunk circled down the drain, in a swirl of water and rose petals and thoughts of Malfoy, rising up above him, that brilliant prick of his buried balls deep in Harry's arse. 

Harry groans at the memory, his hand gripping the newel post as he goes around the landing. He almost wants to go back upstairs and wake Malfoy up, Harry's mouth on Malfoy's prick, his fingers slicked up and pressing into his own arse, prepping himself to ride Malfoy until they're both shattered and shuddering. 

But he can't. Harry has an appointment, and Malfoy needs his sleep. It's odd, Harry thinks, stopping at the front door to push his feet into the trainers, but this is the first time he and Malfoy have just slept in a bed--no fucking, no spunk-stained sheets--since the week Malfoy'd first spent here in Grimmauld Place. Christ, but that feels like years ago. He can't believe it hasn't even been a month yet. 

Everything's changed so quickly. 

Harry steps out of the front door. It's a sleepy Sunday morning on Grimmauld Place; barely anyone's stirring, even with the cloudlessly blue sky and the faint but warm breeze. He hurries across the street to the small park and the copse of larch trees in the corner that he always uses to Disapparate from discreetly. 

A few minutes later he lands in the narrow courtyard of an old, four-story building on Rue de Verneuil in Paris's seventh arrondissement. Harry's nervous. He pulls out the paper Jake had owled him two weeks ago, listing the names and addresses of a few Parisian Mind Healers. It's taken Harry this long to work the courage up to make an appointment with one. 

Harry pushes open the green-painted door at one end of the courtyard and climbs the steep, curving steps to the second floor. There's a gleaming black door on one side of the landing with a small brass plate screwed to the centre. _Mme. Frédérique Aubert-Guillot._

It takes Harry a long moment, standing there staring at the door, before he can raise his hand to rap against it. 

The door opens almost immediately. A small, plump woman looks up at him, her dark hair streaked with grey at the temples. Her blue eyes crinkle at the corners when she smiles. "Monsieur Potter?"

"Yes," Harry says, and then he adds, "oui' in a terrible accent. 

Madame Aubert-Guillot's eyes crinkle even more. "I speak English," she says in a lilting accent. "Call me Freddie; all my clients do."

Harry nods. "Freddie," he says, and the tension in his stomach coils tighter. He tenses, rocks forward on the balls of his feet. 

Freddie watches him with those sharp, bright eyes. "You're certain you're ready for this?"

Not at all, Harry thinks. But he knows he doesn't have a choice. He licks his lip. "Yeah," he says, and then he swallows. "I need someone to help," he says quietly. He gives her a faint smile. "I won't say I'm not terrified."

"Most people are when they first come," Freddie says. "It does get easier."

Harry nods. He's not certain he believes her. 

Freddie steps back and holds the door open for him. "All right then," she says with a smile. "Welcome to Mind Healing, monsieur."

"Harry," he says, and her smile widens. "Thanks for seeing me on a Sunday," he adds. "I'm sorry, I know it's an imposition--"

"First rule of Mind Healing, Harry," Freddie says. "No apologising unless it's something that deserves an apology." Her eyes twinkle at him. "You British are always terrible at following that one."

"Right," Harry says. He's starting to like her, he thinks. 

"Come in, then," Freddie says, turning away from the door. "I'll make you some tea."

Harry takes a deep breath, wiping his damp palms across his jeans, and steps into the office. It's one of the hardest things he's ever done. 

Hands shaking, he closes the door behind him.

***

Draco stands in the empty foyer of the Manor.

He doesn't know what's drawn him here. Perhaps the dreams he'd had all night, fueled by too much wine and the confrontation with his father yesterday morning. Perhaps it was waking up alone, with Potter's brusque note tucked beneath a potion phial. He feels unsettled. Hollowed out. 

Foolish. 

He doesn't want to think about how he'd offered to suck Potter off, or how Potter had gently refused him. Circe, what an idiot he is. 

And so he's run away, leaving before Potter comes back from whatever task pulled him away from the bed this morning. At least that way Draco won't have to face him. Not until tomorrow when he walks into the incident room, Pansy and Blaise watching him. 

_Merlin._ Draco's certain now that he's lost his damned mind.

At first, he'd thought he was going home from Potter's house. He'd had one foot in the Floo, silvery powder already trickling from his fingers into the hearth. And then, like last night, instead of finding himself stepping out into his flat, he'd been here in the Manor. He thinks his subconscious is giving the Floor coordinates these days.

The house is so damned silent. 

Draco walks over to the staircase. He sits on the next-to-bottom step and looks around him. The light from the trifecta of arched, leaded glass windows on the landing fills the foyer, spilling across the marble floor and over the gilded edges of the Malfoy family crest set into the centre of the room. If he closes his eyes, he can remember running through here as a child, chased by one of the elves set to watch over him. He can hear his father's voice booming down the staircase, calling for him, can see his mother sweeping down the steps in her best gown, diamonds at her throat and sparkling in her hair, as she draws on her gloves and leans down to kiss him, telling him not to stay up too late, that she'll see him in the morning.

The Manor'd been the epicentre of his childhood, the place he'd missed so terribly his first year at school, the home he'd brought Pansy and Blaise and Greg and Vince to during hols. It'd meant family. Friends. Love. 

And then everything had changed that last year of the War. His peaceful haven had become his prison, filled with fear and worry and squalor. His family changed along with it. His father became a visible drunk, his mother a silent, terrified figure in the background, overwhelmed by her sister who'd taken on the role of lady of the Manor to the Dark Lord's master. 

Everything Draco had thought he was, everything Draco had thought he had was destroyed, almost overnight. And since then Draco's been the one splicing together the shards of his former life whilst his parents disappeared into their own grief, their own drama. Sometimes he feels as if they'd forgotten him in those years. His father had turned in on himself, had drunk himself into oblivion. His mother had focussed on his father, on her own loss as a wife. And Draco'd been left to fend for himself. 

The son they'd once have done anything to protect. 

He knows his parents love him. In their own incredibly selfish ways. But he'd left the fold, hadn't he? Turned away from their traditions, their beliefs. Tried to make a life for himself. Accepted the fact that he was never going to settle down with a proper girl and sire the longed-for Malfoy heir. 

And the shit of it all is that Draco's happier now. He feels guilty for that, for his desire to walk away from his parents, to let them sort out their own fucked-up lives without pulling him into it yet again. 

But he'll never have that, will he? Because Draco's life is still his parents'. He's still affected by every bloody damned thing they do. There'll still be people out there who'll see him as Lucius Malfoy's son. Not his own man. 

The sins of the fathers and all that sodding rot. 

Draco runs his hands through his hair. This house feels like an albatross around his neck, a reminder of everything he's expected to be, everything he can never let himself become. He loves it. He hates it. 

Much like his family. 

He buries his face in his hands and breathes out. Merlin but he's a maudlin fool. 

There's a shuffle of feet against marble, and Draco looks up. Trissie's there, watching him, her eyes wide, her ears flopping. 

"Master Draco," she says. "You is being home."

No, Draco thinks. This heap of bloody stones is far from home. But he gives her a small smile. "Trissie," he says. "How are the elves holding up?"

Trissie twists the hem of her tea towel between her long fingers before she says, "We is worrying about the mistress, sir." Her forehead wrinkles. "The elves is taking care of themselves, but who is being with the mistress?"

"I am," Draco says, and he reaches out and brushes a knuckle against Trissie's cheek. "Mother's well."

Trissie nods. "And Master Draco?"

Draco doesn't answer for a long moment. "It's hard," he says finally, and his voice cracks. 

Trissie crawls up onto the step beside him. "I is knowing," she says, and she settles one long hand over his arm. "I is always knowing, since you is being a little boy." She leans her head against his shoulder, and it's all Draco can do not to break down, the way he had as a child. 

Instead, he draws in a careful, ragged breath. "Thank you," he says, his voice quiet, and Trissie looks up at him and smiles. 

They sit together, in the silence of the Manor. 

Draco doesn't let himself cry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, you can subscribe for series updates [here on AO3](http://archiveofourown.org/series/661862) or follow me [on tumblr at femmequixotic!](http://femmequixotic.tumblr.com).
> 
> Chapter Two of These Secrets In Me will be posted on Saturday, June 10!


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which interrogations are held, Blaise just wants his tea, and new political spectres threaten.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are back again for the next installment! Thank you for your tremendous reading response and all of your comments--I love hearing about how things strike you and where you're at while reading these chapters. (That may be the best genre of comment thus far; I really need to make a list of all the places people have told me they've read this series in, lol.) You're all amazing and thank you a million times! 
> 
> Another million thanks to noeon and sassy_cissa for continuing to beta for me even though chapters are running around just under 32K each now. Oops?
> 
>  
> 
> **Chapter warnings for references to past self-harm, brief mention of past suicidal ideation, nightmares, abusive language by angry people.**

Blaise walks into the incident room early on Monday morning, only to find Draco and Pansy already there, heads bent together. He sets his paper cup of milky tea on his desk and shrugs out of his jacket, tossing it over the back of his chair before he drops into it. 

"Good morning, you arseholes," he says, and they both look over. He raises an eyebrow. "What the hell are you both whispering about?"

Draco hands over a copy of the morning's _Prophet_. "Page five," he says as Blaise spreads it open. There, down at the bottom left corner, beneath the latest Quidditch scores and next to an advert for beard bags, is a photograph of Blaise’s grandfather walking out of the Beaumont, a bold-printed headline above it, wondering why the Ministry'd allowed a known necromancer back into the country. Blaise skims the article, written by Orla Quirke, whom he vaguely remembers as a tall, freckled ginger Ravenclaw three years behind him in school. 

"Well," Blaise says after a moment. "Grandfather's not going to be half-narked off that they stuck him beneath the league tables, now is he?" He folds the paper back up and tosses it over onto Draco's desk. "He ought to have at least made page two."

"Blaise," Pansy says, and there's a worried hitch in her voice. He waves her off. 

"It's nothing," Blaise says. "Just the usual tripe, and only half of it's true, although the rundown of Mother's former husbands was fairly accurate. They left out one or two." He gives them both a faint smile, but he knows they're concerned. Blaise doesn't like to talk about his family on the best of days. Having them spread across the _Prophet_ ’s inner pages makes him more than uncomfortable. He's still not certain about his grandfather as it is, although he's starting to wonder if some of the stories his mother's told him about how awful the old man is might be a bit embellished. Or at least somewhat narratively biased, he thinks. Then again, he's really only been reintroduced to Barachiel Dee as an older man, and even now he's bloody imposing. Blaise can only imagine what his grandfather'd been like twenty-six years ago when his mother had walked away from her home, pregnant and on the arm of an impoverished man.

The door opens and Potter walks into the room. He looks worn out, as if he hadn't slept half the night, and his clothes are rumpled, his red braces clashing with the deeper burgundy of his tie when his jacket swings open. He nods their way, without actually looking at any of them, and strides into his office. Blaise can hear the solid thump of Potter's satchel hitting his desk. He glances over at Draco.

"Did you have a row with the guv?" he asks, and Draco's mouth tightens just enough. 

"No," Draco snaps. "I haven't seen him since--" He breaks off, and Blaise knows there's something there, but the furrow of concern in Draco's brow makes him think it wasn't an argument. Draco stands up and walks into Potter's office, closing the door behind him. 

Pansy looks over at Blaise. "Well, this isn't awkward," she says, and Blaise snorts. 

"Let's just hope they keep their clothes on, yeah?" Blaise reaches for his tea. "It's too bloody early on a Monday for that sort of thing."

Pansy's mouth twitches. There's a wisp of hair slipping from the soft knot on the nape of her neck. Blaise doesn't tell her; he likes when she looks a bit dishevelled. Sometimes he thinks Pansy uses her sharp severity to keep people at bay. He doesn't blame her; if he'd grown up with Camilla Parkinson, he might have as well, and he knows it's just a sham to keep everyone from seeing how brittlely fragile she can be. 

"You all right?" he asks after a moment. "Only the Tony thing this weekend--"

"I'm not talking about it, Blaise," Pansy says, her voice quiet. "Please."

Blaise nods and takes another sip of his tea. He loves the tang of bergamot against his tongue; his mother thinks Earl Grey's terribly plebian, of course. She prefers a strong lapsang souchong or an assam, with just a slice of lemon if she's feeling light-hearted and God help you if you come near her with milk or sugar. 

He sets his cup back down and reaches for the stack of paperwork that's been waiting for him. "What's the latest on the Soul Grass crop near Loch Leven?"

"The ethnobotanists confirmed the location." Pansy leans forward, her arms on the desk in front of her. "And my analysis of the salve indicates that all the grass used in it are the same variety as grown there. The traces of peat compounds are a close enough match." Her crisp white shirt pulls across her shoulders, the open buttons at the neck gaping forward to give him a glimpse of the lacy edge of her pale blush bra. Blaise looks away, his stomach flopping a bit. He knows it's just sexual frustration and a surge of those damned Veela hormones from whichever of his great-great-grandmothers. Still, he could use a good shag right about now. Whilst his hand's brill, it's not like sinking into the soft warmth of another person's body. 

"That's good, yeah?" Blaise pulls out a transcript of one of the interviews he and Potter had done with Wrightson last week that Viola had sent over on Friday morning. It's bloody short, and mostly monosyllabic. He sighs. "At least you're getting somewhere."

Pansy shrugs. "It definitely ties the salve from Anichka Dolohova's house to the Loch Leven camp and to the salve Abadzhiev used on you, which should shore up the connection between Selwyn and Dolohov for the WPS." She glances over at the guv's closed door. "What do you think they're doing?"

"That's the last thing I want to know." Blaise drops the transcript back on his desk. "It's too quiet for them to be shagging."

Pansy looks a bit dubious. "You know Robards'll find out about the two of them. Again." She worries her red-lipsticked lip between her teeth. "Circe, he's being such an idiot."

"Because either of them are known for making the best personal decisions?" Blaise rubs the tip of his nose absently. He's worried that a spot's coming up; he'd already doused it with all the potions in his bath cabinet so that should be the end of it, but he can't help being a bit self-aware. Draco and Pansy mock him for his so-called vanities, but if they'd grown up Olivia Zabini's child, they'd have them too, he thinks. He loves his mother like mad, but he'll never measure up to her high standards of how he ought to look. He remembers her sitting him down just before he went to Hogwarts and telling him, _we have to be twice as good as them, love. Twice as beautiful, twice as smart, twice as talented, twice as calm. It's not fair, and it's not right, but it's how our family is. How it's always been._ It hadn't taken him long in the Slytherin common room before he'd understood. Flint had said something about his mother being a murderous whore, and it'd taken Draco and Greg to pull him off the bastard. Their friendship had been sealed right there, when Draco'd turned to Flint and cursed the stupidity of Flint's entire sodding lineage. Blaise had known then he'd protect Draco fiercely. He still will. He looks over at Pansy. "Two words for you: Nicholas Lyndon. At least the guv's not a rat-faced twat like that tosser. Never shag a Gringotts bastard."

Pansy grimaces. "Point taken. But you know this--" She nods her head at Potter's office. "Is going to go tits-up, and we'll be the ones trying to stitch him back together."

She's not half-wrong. Blaise knows this. "We'll cross that bridge when we have to. You know Draco's going to do whatever he wants." 

"I love him," Pansy says. "More than most of my family. But I'm not going down with him over Potter. I’ve worked too damned hard here. _I_ want to make sergeant. Maybe even higher." She gives Blaise a troubled look. "Am I a horrible person?"

"You're a bloody sane person, I'd say." Blaise'll do every bloody thing he can to look out for Draco, to keep him safe from his own idiocy, but there'll be a moment, Blaise thinks when neither he nor Pansy can stop Draco from buggering up his own career. To be honest, he's not entirely certain they haven't already gone past that, but Blaise would rather not consider what that might mean at the moment. 

The door to Potter's office opens again, and Pansy looks away. Draco steps out, looking a bit annoyed, and the guv follows him. Blaise thinks Potter's mouth's a bit swollen and pink, but he can't be certain. Potter's silent as Draco walks past, drops back down into his chair. The guv goes over to the whiteboard, his hands in his pockets, studying it. 

Blaise raises an eyebrow at Draco, who shakes his head, then pretends to ignore him. Right then. It's going to be that sort of morning, is it? Frankly, Blaise wants to bang both their heads together, tell them to stop being such arseholes. It's putting him off his tea. 

"Right," Potter says, without turning around. "So Gawain firecalled me last night. We're going to have to put the screws a bit tighter on our suspects over in the holding cells this week. The WPS are getting nervous, although, Parkinson, they're grateful for your lab work." He turns then, glances over at Pansy. "It's shoring up their case right now, so keep it up. Hermione's sending up a report today regarding the Dementors. I want you to take a look at it first."

Pansy nods. "Sure, guv. Anything I should watch for?"

Potter runs a hand through his already tangled hair. Blaise isn't certain it's been washed over the weekend. The dark circles under his eyes are terrible. "She says it has theoretical explanations of something." He waves his hand. "Just give it a butcher's, yeah? Tell me if there's anything we need to pass on to the higher-ups." He gives her an even look. "Or not."

"Good enough." Pansy's gaze darts towards Blaise; he shrugs. The guv's in an odd mood this morning. Draco's not much better, to be honest. He keeps looking at Potter, and beneath his annoyance, there's a definite thread of worry. Blaise has known Draco far too long not to see that. Frankly, he thinks Draco's in over his head. Not to mention utterly bloody unaware of how tits over arse he is for Potter. Either that or Draco's being intentionally obtuse. Which Blaise wouldn't put past him either. 

Circe.

Potter glances back at the board. "I'm going to take another crack at Wrightson this morning with Hermione. Croaker’s wanting her to sit in on all interviews this week. See if having an Unspeakable on board makes them crack faster. Zabini, you have the last transcript?"

Blaise pushes it across his desk towards Potter. "It's not much. Mostly the bastard saying nothing."

"It'll help." Potter picks the thin sheaf of parchment up and flips through it. "Well done, though. He may not have answered, but your line of questioning was thorough. Mind if I borrow this?"

A spark of warmth goes through Blaise at the praise. Potter doesn't give it if he doesn't mean it, which makes it more worthwhile than when he's been lauded under other guvs. "No problem," he says. 

Potter rolls the parchment between his hands. "So next steps--"

He breaks off when the incident room door opens again, and Althea Whitaker walks in, a brown leather satchel over her shoulder, long and lean in dark trousers and a grey shirt, the sleeves rolled up to her elbows. 

"Reporting, guv," she says to Potter, not looking at the rest of them. There's a tenseness to her jaw and a tightness to her shoulders that makes Blaise glance over at Pansy. He's not certain what's happening, but he has a suspicion. One that he's damned sure Draco's not going to like. 

Potter confirms it with a nod. "Come on in, Whitaker." He turns to the rest of them. "Whitaker's been reassigned to us--"

"The fuck she has." Draco's voice is quiet. Blaise looks at him. He's ramrod straight in his chair; his cheeks are flushed a bright pink; his hands are clenched in front of him. 

Althea just looks at him, her face expressionless. Circe, but the woman has bollocks, Blaise thinks. Draco's bloody intimidating when he's about to lose his shit. 

"Malfoy," the guv says, and Draco swings around, turning that fiery gaze on him. 

"I'm not working with that cu--"

"Draco," Pansy says sharply, and Draco bites the word off, his mouth pressed into a thin line. He stands up and, without another word, walks out of the room, slamming the door behind him so hard the walls shake. 

Potter sighs. "Jesus bloody _fuck_." He points Althea towards an empty desk. "Sit. I'm going after him."

When he leaves, the door only slams half as hard. 

The room's silent. 

Althea sets her satchel on the desk Potter'd pointed her to. She's carefully not looking over at Blaise and Pansy; they're sitting at their own desks, more than a bit shellshocked, watching her as she takes a notebook and a set of quills out of her bag and lays them out before sitting down. She glances over then, and her facade cracks just enough for Blaise to realise she's uncertain about being here.

He feels sorry for her for a moment, but he also bloody well understands Draco's objection. Althea's been on Draco's tits for years, snarling insults at him, bringing up his Mark every bloody time she can. And now the guv wants them all to accept her, to welcome her to their team, when it's just been them for weeks? 

Fuck that.

Blaise gives Althea a cold, appraising look. "Trying to climb up the ladder, Sergeant?" He lets the title drawl out, into almost a mockery of it. Their team already has a sergeant. It doesn't need another bloody one. 

Althea's mouth tightens just a bit, and Blaise knows he's hit a nerve. "I asked for this reassignment," she says. "Better than being on Halliwell's team, I'd say. Or Fairburn's, for that matter." 

“And if we don’t want you here?” Blaise stands up, leaning over his desk, his palms flattened out over his paperwork.

“Blaise,” Pansy says, and he looks over at her. She shakes her head, a quick sharp jerk that draws Blaise up short. There's an expression on her face that he doesn't quite understand; of all people, he'd have thought Pansy'd be at Althea's jugular. She's just as defensive as he is over Draco, and Althea's been Draco's nemesis for ages now. More so even than Potter, and look how that'd turned out.

"But she's--" He starts to say, and Pansy cuts him off.

"Just shut it for a moment, please," Pansy says, her voice sharp. "It's not like we've much choice in the matter, any of us. If she's here, she's here. And it's not as if she didn't help us out before." 

"Circe's fucking--" Blaise drops back into his chair, trying to control his annoyance. He reaches for a sugar quill and unwraps it, shoving it into his mouth. Althea watches both of them warily, her whole body tight and tense, as if she'll be up and out of the room at the slightest provocation.

Pansy stands up and walks over to Althea's desk, perching on the corner of it, looking down at Althea."I'm giving you the benefit of the doubt, Whitaker," she says quietly, "woman to woman, because I know what it can be like on this force." She doesn't look at Blaise. He bites the tip of his sugar quill, letting it shatter against his teeth. "But you better give me a straight answer. No faffing about." 

Althea meets her gaze evenly. "Then ask."

“Why us?" Pansy grips the edge of the desk on either side of her hips, leaning forward slightly. Her back's to Blaise, a long, lean line beneath the white cotton of her shirt; he watches her, his irritation fading. She's a sharp one, Pans, in all meanings of the word. Sometimes he thinks she's wasted in the lab; she'd be good in an interview room, going after a suspect. "Halliwell's not all bad. Or you could have gone over to Kwambai’s team. He’s not a sexist shit like Fairburn.”

Althea doesn’t answer for a long moment, then she sighs. “I liked what I saw on the Manor raid. Potter and Malfoy and you. The way you worked together as a team, the way you respected each other. I didn’t see a lot of that with Wrightson. Or with some of my other SIOs.”

Pansy gives her a long look. “It’s not just Potter,” Pansy says after a moment. “It’s all of us, Draco included, that makes that work.”

“I know.” Althea picks up one of her quills and twists it between her fingers. "I'm not an idiot."

"You've spent years being a shit to Draco," Blaise says finally. "You think we're going to forget that?"

The look Althea gives him is quick and troubled. "I don't like him. I don't like any of you. It's all you lot against the rest of us, isn't it?" She drops her quill. "Except maybe, you, Zabini. You've at least tried some. Had a few drinks, a few laughs. But you--" She turns to Pansy. "And Malfoy. It's all keeping the rest of us at arm's length, isn't it--"

"Oh, bollocks," Pansy says. Her mouth twitches in amusement. "But nice try. I'll give you points for effort. Don't turn this around on us. I fully agree we're snobs--Blaise excepted to a certain extent--but all three of us have been harassed since training, and it's not like I don't know you, Althea. I've seen you be a complete sodding cow, so don't act like this is all on us."

Althea's mouth thins, then her shoulders slump. She rubs the back of her neck; her hand dips beneath the collar of her shirt, her unpolished fingernails are clipped shorter than even Potter's, Blaise thinks. "I don't know what to do," she says after a moment. "Wrightson…" She looks away, draws in a deep breath. "I trusted him. A hell of a lot, and look what he did. So when Robards asked me where I wanted to go next, I asked for this team. Because I don't trust any of you, and maybe that's what I need right now. Fair is foul and foul is fair and all that."

Pansy studies her for a long moment. "All right," she says. "Don't trust you either, you know."

"Probably shouldn't," Althea says, but there's a faint quirk at the corner of her mouth. "I can be a bitch."

That earns her a wider smile from Pansy. "Bitches stick together," she says, and she glances over at Blaise. "You're still angry."

To be honest, Blaise doesn't know why his opinion bloody matters. "Draco’s going to be furious.”

Pansy’s silent. She looks away from him. “Draco will be fine.” 

"He will most certainly not be fine." Blaise barks a bitter laugh. He rubs a hand over his tight, cropped curls. "But what the hell. We're the ones who'll have to pay for it in the end, so eventually, he'll owe us.” He looks at Althea thoughtfully. “Us, at least. Not you. I don’t think.”

Althea wrinkles her brow in confusion. "What do you mean?"

"He means Draco’s known for his strops,” Pansy says. “It'll be hell for a few days around here, and one of us will manage to coax him out of it. But he'll come round. He always does. And he's usually sorry."

Blaise nods. There's so much they're not saying, he thinks, about Potter, about everything--and Circe, but he hopes Potter and Draco can keep whatever’s going on between them out of the office and away from Althea’s sharp eyes--but the gist is true. Draco is Draco, and sometimes all you can do is wait it out.

He opens up another file jacket. “Look,” he says. “The guv’ll sort him out. At least somewhat.” He hopes it’s true, but he’s a feeling Draco’s going to be angriest at Potter. Rightly so, Blaise thinks. It was bloody stupid of the guv to keep this from Draco. Even if Blaise does understand his reasoning. Sometimes it’s easier to not tell Draco things than to deal with the implosion. Still, this one was going to happen, one way or another, and the guv of all people ought to have figured that shit out.

“I hope he can,” Pansy says quietly, and Blaise gives her a long, careful look. 

Merlin only knows what it’ll be like around here if Potter can’t. 

Blaise bites his lip and goes back to his file. 

That’s not something he even wants to consider.

***

Malfoy’s halfway down the corridor before Harry catches up with him.

“Hey,” Harry says, and he reaches out to catch Malfoy’s elbow. Malfoy jerks away, whirling around to face Harry.

“Don’t fucking touch me.” Malfoy’s eyes are bright with anger, his cheeks a splotchy pink. His hair falls over his face; he pushes it back with one hand. “You fucking, goddamned piece of _shit--_ ”

Harry steps back before Malfoy’s fist hits his chest. “Watch it,” he says sharply. “I’m your superior officer--”

“Oh, now you’re going to throw that in my face, are you?” Malfoy’s voice rises. Harry catches sight of Honoria Savage turning the corner, her face buried in a file. For now at least, although if Malfoy has anything to say about it, the whole bloody office will know about the two of them in the next five minutes. “After all this--” Malfoy breaks off as Harry grabs his arm, drags him into an empty incident room and slams the door behind them. “Don’t shove me about--”

“Shut up, you stupid berk.” Harry knows Malfoy’s angry, knows why he’s angry. But he’s done with him right now. Jesus. Harry runs a hand through his hair. It's been a shit morning already; he'd barely slept all night. Freddie had warned him things might start to bubble up to the surface once he got further into the process of Mind Healing. He hadn't bloody well expected to have nightmares about fucking Voldemort all goddamned night, though. “In this building I’m your superior officer because other people see me as your fucking superior officer, and you shouting at me down in the hall, trying to strike me--”

“You deserve it.” Malfoy walks across the room. His shoulders are hunched, his arms wrapped tight around his chest. He looks a bit lost, even in his fury, and Harry feels like a giant arsehole. 

Harry leans against the closed door, the fight seeping out of him. “I probably do.”

"And here I was being nice to you, this morning," Malfoy says. "Shows me to be a fool."

"Come on," Harry says. His burst of anger's slipping away, leaving him a bit hollowed out inside. He's tired. Fucking hell, he's so bloody tired. He rubs his hands over his face, pressing his fingertips against his prickly, burning eyes. Malfoy had been decent to him when he'd come in, walking into Harry's office and asking him what was wrong, coming over to touch Harry's cheek, to press his forehead against Harry's when Harry'd said he didn't want to talk about it. He'd kissed Harry gently, told him it'd be all right, and Harry'd known Althea'd be walking in, he'd known it would upset Malfoy, and he still hadn't said anything because it was easier not to.

Christ, he's a shit.

Malfoy keeps his back to Harry. His head’s bent just enough for his hair to swing forward, hiding the sides of his face. “How long have you known she was coming on board?”

“Two weeks,” Harry admits. “Gawain told me the day you got promoted.”

The silence between them stretches out, taut and unyielding. Malfoy breaks it finally with a low, terse, “You wanker.”

"Yeah." There's no sense in arguing the point. Malfoy's not wrong. Harry rests his head against the door. He can hear someone walking down the hall, laughing. “I should have told you,” he says. “But I knew you’d be upset--”

“So you thought it’d be a great idea to, what, Potter?” Malfoy turns then, his face paler now, the flush fading away. “Wait until she walked in the door?” His voice cracks just a bit. “Merlin, but you don’t have the slightest bit of respect for me, do you?”

“That’s not it.” Harry leans his shoulders into the door. He’s so damned worn out. Maybe he _is_ a wretched SIO. He tried to talk about it with Freddie yesterday, but he’s not willing to tell her yet that he’s shagging one of his subordinates. She’s done a lot of one-on-one work with traumatised Aurors across Europe, so maybe she won’t be surprised--intraoffice affairs aren’t unknown, as Gawain had pointed out--but he just couldn’t admit it. He needs to work into that, he thinks. Besides, they’d only had fifty minutes. It’s not as if he could have spilled his entire fucked-up psyche out to her in less than an hour.

Especially since half their time had been spent with him just looking at her silently, not knowing what to say next.

“What is it then?” Malfoy demands. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you don’t trust me. That you think I’ll fly off the handle--”

“Well, you are, aren’t you?” Harry can’t help himself. His annoyance wells up again, a squelchy, uneasy feeling deep inside that itches and oozes through his psyche. He’s not sure it’s all Malfoy, really. He’s been out of sorts since he woke up this morning, his head aching, feeling as if he’d been slammed up against a brick wall. “This is just what I thought you’d do. Get angry, tell me what a sodding shit I am, yeah? All because Althea Whitaker was a bitch to you--”

Malfoy steps closer. “For years, Potter. For fucking _years._ ”

“Get over it.” There’s a part of Harry that knows he’s being cruel, that understands Malfoy has every right to be angry with him. But he’s furious as well, and he doesn’t know whether he’s angrier at Malfoy or at himself. He hates that it feels almost a relief to have the anger tumble out, spilling towards Malfoy, like it’s a just-picked scab. Still, when Malfoy jerks back, almost as if Harry’s slapped him, Harry feels ashamed. “Look,” he says, but Malfoy’s jerking at his left cuff, unbuttoning it and pulling it up over his mangled forearm. 

“This,” Malfoy says, shoving his arm out at Potter. “This is what I did because of her. Because she mocked me, because she told me what a worthless piece of shit I was for taking the Mark.” He looks defiantly at Harry, his mouth a thin twist of pressed lips. “I went home one Friday after a week of that cow haranguing me, drank half a bottle of whisky, and took my wand to my arm.” His hand trembles. “I know that’s not her fault, and maybe I would have done it anyway. But I remember exactly what it felt like that night, sitting there in the bath with my fucking blood swirling down the drain whilst I did everything I could to rid myself of this bloody thing the only way I knew how.”

Harry can’t say anything, can’t look away from the puckered pink scar that shines fiercely, furiously across Malfoy’s pale skin, wrapping around Malfoy’s arm from wrist to elbow, a puffy, slick twist of mangled skin. He feels a bit ill, wants to reach out for Malfoy, to pull him closer. He doesn’t. He can’t.

Malfoy’s watching him. “You want me not to be furious at you for letting Althea Whitaker on our team,” he says after a moment, and his voice shakes. He looks away from Harry. “And fine, she’s here now. I’ll deal with it. I don’t like it, but I’ll live. She’s a shit, but I’ve faced down plenty of those in my years on the force. Not that you’d know anything about that, Saint Potter.” His mouth twists to one side, a quick and vicious curl, and Harry sees the Malfoy he’d once known, all those years back at school, the Malfoy who thought him a fool, the Malfoy who’d lashed out at him, who’d told him what a fucking twat he was being. 

“It won’t be that bad--” Harry starts to say, but Malfoy cuts him off.

“What you don’t seem to understand,” Malfoy spits out, “is that I’m not angry about Althea. I’m angry about you, and the fact that you didn’t bother to tell me in advance, because you were afraid I’d throw a fit. Well, you have it now, don’t you?” He pulls his sleeve down his arm and buttons it. His fingers shake; he glances away from Harry. “So let me just say fuck you, you arsehole.” His voice is thick and raw.

“I…” Harry steps towards Malfoy; Malfoy pulls back, turns away, and Harry stills. He knows when not to push things now with Malfoy. Or at least he’d thought he did. 

“You fucking humiliated me,” Malfoy says. He won’t look at Harry. His fists clench at his side. “In front of her. In front of Blaise and Pansy. You didn’t trust me enough to even bring this to me before she walked in the bloody room. So I don’t really give a damn if you’re my SIO. You can sod off.”

Harry doesn’t know what to say. “I’m sorry,” he manages. 

Malfoy doesn’t say anything. Harry wants to reach a hand out, wants to brush his fingers along the tense stretch of Malfoy’s back. He shoves his hands in his pockets instead.

“I need a fucking coffee,” Malfoy says finally. “Or a bottle of whisky. Maybe both.” He pushes his hair back off his forehead, carding his fingers through it. “Fuck, Potter, and here I felt sorry for you.” 

Harry looks away, and Malfoy huffs out a slow breath. “Go,” Harry says after a moment, stepping away from the door. “Take a walk, find an off-license, whatever you need.” He wants to ask if they can get through this, if Malfoy will forgive him, but there’s a part of him terrified of the answer. Christ, but he’s a waste of Gryffindor sometimes, he thinks. Reckless and stupid, until it really matters. 

“Yeah,” Malfoy says. He brushes past Harry, the scent of cedar and lemongrass wafting by. Harry wants to catch his waist, pull Malfoy back against him, bury his face in the curve of Malfoy’s neck and beg for forgiveness. Instead he opens the door for Malfoy, who steps out into the hallway, not bothering to look back. 

He’s gone and Harry’s standing there, feeling gutted and shaken. He’s a damned fool, he thinks, and he wants to sink to the floor, press his forehead to his knees and just breathe, the way he’d done when he was younger and everything was so bloody overwhelming. But he can’t. He’s not a child any longer, even if he feels like one most days. He has a job, and a team, and he somehow finds himself walking back to the incident room, one footstep after another, one breath after another. 

The room’s silent when he comes back in; Zabini and Parkinson look up at him, both a bit sullen. Harry’s fairly certain they’ve been arguing; Zabini has a file spread out in front of him, a quill tapping against the parchment. Whitaker’s at the furthest desk, her arms crossed, gaze fixed on the neat row of quills lined up across the desktop. Harry wonders what he’s got himself into. 

“Where’s Draco?” Zabini demands, and Harry’s headache starts to creep forward again.

“Talking a walk.” Harry strides back over to the whiteboard. “Or something. Are the three of you good? Because we’ve a bloody mountain of work to get through for the WPS.”

“We’re fine,” Parkinson says, and Whitaker nods. Only Zabini’s silent, but Harry can deal with that. 

Harry picks up a whiteboard quill. The lump of disappointment and irritation that’s settled in his gut hardens. He does his best to ignore it. “Right, so, WPS cases. Malfoy senior and Selwyn are strong. The case against Wrightson has your testimony, Whitaker, as arresting Auror, and both he and Bates have the Azkaban log to deal with. Circumstantial, but we can work from there. Zabini, I want you to take point from there.”

“On it, guv,” Zabini says, and he scrawls something across his notepad. 

“Dolohov and Yaxley.” Harry underlines their names on the whiteboard. “Both supposed to be dead, suddenly turning up alive, if Narcissa Malfoy’s not mistaken about Yaxley.”

“She won’t have been,” Parkinson says, with a glance over to Whitaker. "She knows him well." 

Harry notices that Whitaker’s face is pinched but resolved. Harry figures he won't have trouble asking her to work extra hours on this, that he may just need to pull her back occasionally. He sympathises. He knows what it’s like, knows that the entire reason she became an Auror was because she felt useless, unable to stop her own mother’s death. He looks back at Pansy and nods. “I agree. So I want you tying the threads together there, Parkinson.” 

“And the Dementors?” Parkinson asks, and Harry nods.

“I’ll pass on that report as soon as I flip through it.” Harry looks over at Whitaker. “And you, you’re acquainted with our six evidence boxes on the Dolohov case.”

Whitaker folds her thin, lanky frame forward across the desk. “I spent some time sorting through them on Wrightson’s orders, yeah.”

“Perfect.” Harry points his whiteboard quill at her. “Dig into them again. Cross-reference them with our notes. See if there’s something you can pick up that we haven’t. You’ve got fairly fresh eyes on this case. I want to use them.”

“Yes, guv,” Whitaker says. She’s oddly subdued, Harry thinks, but he’s not going to question it. Not yet. 

Harry scrawls their assignments on the whiteboard, leaving Malfoy’s blank. That’ll come later. He drops the quill back down into the tray, and claps his hands together. “All right. Let’s get on this before the _Prophet_ drags us one more time for being incompetent sods.”

Parkinson stands up, gathers her notepad. “And you’ll be on Wrightson, guv?”

Harry sighs and glances over at the clock on the wall. “At half-ten. Wish me luck?”

Parkinson gives him a wry smile. “Fuck knows you’ll need it.”

She’s goddamned right.

***

Bertie pours a splash of firewhisky into a mug of tea and shoves it across his desk to Draco. It steams and bubbles, nearly frothing over the rim before it settles down. “No one knows I’ve a bottle back here,” Bertie says, “so keep your gob shut about it.”

Draco meets his smile with a smaller one of his own. “I’ll keep your secret,” he says. Not like he hasn’t a bigger one himself. And sleeping with your SIO's far more problematic than a contraband bottle of firewhisky in a locked drawer. He curls himself into the corner of Bertie’s huge armchair, his feet propped on a stack of thick, leather-bound Wizengamot legal codes from the twentieth century, most of them out-dated by now, their corners crumbling a bit beneath Draco’s boots. It’s been too long since he’s been in this office--over a month at least--and Draco’s missed the cosiness of the clutter. Potter’s office, though not overly neat, feels too sterile in comparison, with its carefully labelled binders on the bookshelf and file jackets in wire baskets instead of the teetering towers on Bertie’s desk held up by sheer force of will and most likely a structural charm or two.

Bertie leans back in his chair, hands clasped over the knubbly weave of his jumper. “Althea Whitaker, eh? I wondered when you’d find out.”

Draco picks up his mug. “You knew too?” He feels like a child, whinging, but he can’t help himself. He blows the steam off the tea and takes a sip. It nearly burns the top of his mouth off.

“Careful,” Bertie says as Draco winces. “And it came up in Chief Inspectors’ meeting, didn’t it? All that shite comes through us at some point or another. It’s why I sleep through half the meetings.”

“You might have warned me.” Draco wraps his hands around the hot tea mug and blows across it again. He’s cross with Bertie now, and that’s not what he’d wanted when he’d made his way down here. 

Bertie gives him an even look. “Don’t be daft. I’m not your SIO. If I’d told you and you’d gone off on Potter, then there’s both of us in the soup for it, yeah?” He shakes his head and pours another splash of firewhisky in his own tea before capping the bottle and sticking it back in his bottom drawer, warding it shut. “Besides, is this the ditch you want to die in, lad? Althea Whitaker’s been a sodding cow to you, that’s for bloody certain, but you’ve worked with shittier Aurors. At least she’s tried to stab you in the front over the years, not the back.”

“Not so comforting, Bertie.” Draco lifts his mug to his lips and takes a small sip of tea again. It’s not as awful, and the firewhisky’s bracing in just the right way. 

“Aye, but it ought to be in its own way.” Bertie watches him. “I know she’s been cruel to you--”

“It’s not Althea,” Draco says. He blames the firewhisky for loosening his tongue. “Potter didn’t even tell me, Bertie. He doesn’t even respect me enough to let me know that I’m walking into cobra’s nest.”

“Well, that’s a bit melodramatic,” Bertie says. He leans forward, his elbows splayed across his ink-stained desk blotter. “And I rather think it’s more her walking into one than you, all things considered.”

Draco can feel his face set into a sullen scowl at Bertie’s chiding. ”It’s not.” 

“Look, lad.” Bertie strokes a hand over his greying moustache. It bristles back out over his thick fingers. “The fact of it is, I probably would have made the same decision as your SIO. And have done before, when I’ve had two feuding Aurors on my team. It happens. The SIO’s choice is to minimise the damage to the team, which sometimes means not giving one person the time to build up a good strop about it all. You spring it on them, they have a bit of a wobble like you’re having, then it’s over. Done and dusted, the way it’ll be when you walk back in that incident room.” He pauses. “Mostly.”

“You think I’m a tit.” Draco frowns down into his mug. He can see the reflection of his bent head in the tea, his hair falling forward. 

Bertie doesn’t say anything for a moment. “I think,” he says finally. “That you’ve been hurt. By Althea. By Potter.” He hesitates, then sighs. “And by your dad, boy. You don’t think some of this fight in you doesn’t come from that? Merlin’s fucking beard, he’s in custody. Probably going to Azkaban, once Shah and his lot figure out what the hell’s happening out there.”

Draco’s throat tightens. He sets his tea back on Bertie’s desk, the bile in his stomach churning, rising up, sharp and painful against the tea and whisky. “I don’t want to talk about that, Bertie.”

“Maybe you should.” Bertie’s voice is gentle. Careful. “Doesn’t have to be with me. Parkinson’s a good listener.”

“Sometimes.” Draco sinks lower in the armchair. He wants to pull his knees to his chest, huddle in on himself the way he had when he was a boy, hiding himself in the shadowed corners of the Manor library where no one would find him when he felt unhappy. But he’s a grown man now, sitting in the office of one of his superiors, even if he is a father figure to him. He swallows; it hurts. 

“You’ll be fine,” Bertie says. “It’s a sodding hell of a time for you, but you’ll make it through, lad. I know you will.” When Draco looks up at him, he’s smiling. “But for now, try to pull yourself out of your funk. Don’t give Althea anything else to use against you.”

He’s right. Draco knows it. He sits up with a sigh and reaches for his tea. “And Potter?”

Bertie gives him a long, searching look, almost as if he knows what Draco means behind those two words. “What about him?”

Draco chews on his bottom lip. “I’m thinking about applying for a transfer,” he says in a rush. “I have the papers. They’re half-filled out.”

“Well.” Bertie sits back in his chair, a huff of breath going out of him. “You talk about this with anyone else?”

“Just my mother.” Draco rests his elbows on his thighs, rubs his knuckles against his mouth. “She thinks I should.”

Bertie raises a bushy eyebrow. “Why?”

Circe, if Draco could only tell him. But what would he say? Because I’m shagging my SIO like a damned fool, even after the Head Auror warned me off of him? Fuck, but he can’t put Bertie in that position. He drops his hands between his knees. “General difficulty in not hexing his bollocks off. We don't work well together.”

That coaxes a chuckle out of Bertie. “Lad, if that's all it took, every single last one of us would've put in a transfer. Weekly.” He turns his sharp gaze on Draco; it unsettles Draco enough to look away. He doesn’t want Bertie to see what he’s done. Who he‘s become. “What’s going on? You worked under fucking Marcus Wrightson for over a year, and never asked for a transfer.”

“I put in for more training,” Draco points out. “That’s what landed me in this whole damned mess in the first place.” He thinks back to the training centre showers, his face heating. If only Bertie knew.

Bertie just eyes him. “You can’t transfer. That’d be a damned stupid thing to do. Especially at the moment. Potter’s your protection. Transferring out from under him would be bloody reckless.”

“I want to,” Draco says, his voice barely a whisper. He’s still angry with Potter; he doesn’t know how he can get past this. He doesn’t care what Bertie says; Potter ought to have told him. Two nights ago they were lying in bed together, for fuck’s sake. Draco had gone into his office this morning, sodding worried about him because Potter looked like hell warmed over. 

Draco’s been falling for the arsehole, for fuck’s sake, and that realisation slams into him, hard and painful, knocking his breath out of his body, making his hands tremble. He balls them into fists; he can’t look up at Bertie. He’s glad for the length of his hair, falling over his face, hiding him until he can pull himself back together. 

He draws in a slow, careful breath. He’s in dangerously close to being in love with Potter--which is a nightmare in itself--and Potter doesn’t trust him, doesn’t respect him enough to tell him about Althea. That’s the problem, and as always, Draco’s a stupid, feckless fool, isn’t he? Because Potter’s never going to feel the same way about Draco. How could he?

Draco opens his hands, turns his palms up, staring down at them. The cuff of his sleeve’s ridden up. He can see a bit of his scar beneath it, splotchy pale pink against his wrist. He wonders sometimes why he hadn’t gone all the way that night. Hadn’t just sliced into his vein and let the blood flow free. It’s not as if he hasn’t considered it before. There’d been a time just after the war ended when those thoughts had been constant, fuelled by things other students had said to him during his eighth year, by the editorials written in the _Prophet_ , by the shame Draco’d begun to feel over what he’d done, what his parents had done. 

But he’d always fought the idea away. He still does, even today. That’s one thing Helena had helped him do, when he was going to her once a week. Perhaps he should go back. Mind Healing’s a long process, she’d told him. It doesn’t happen overnight. Sometimes it takes a lifetime.

Particularly one’s working through traumatisation from war.

Draco wishes he were stronger, wishes he could be like Blaise and Pansy and Millie and Greg and leave it all back in his past, not be afraid of the nightmares and the anxieties and all the myriad fucked-up things his broken mind throws at him on a daily basis.

“Lad,” Bertie says, his voice quiet, and Draco looks up at him. “All right?”

Draco’s not, but he nods anyway. “No transferring?” he asks, his voice raw in the back of his throat. He wonders if Bertie would change his mind if Draco confessed he thought he might be falling for his SIO.

“Don’t run away,” Bertie says. “It’s what it’ll look like. If you need time, go to Robards. Take a leave. No one’ll deny it to you, boy. Not with your father in an Unspeakable holding cell. But a transfer? There’ll be those who’ll look badly on that.”

He’s right. Draco knows he is. But he’s also not certain how much his heart can take right now. “I don’t want a leave,” he says. What would he do other than lie around his flat with his mother? He couldn’t even go on holiday--he can’t bear to leave her alone like that. “Fuck.” He rolls his head back, feeling the urge to hit something. 

Or to put on a pair of trainers and run through the streets of London until he’s too bloody exhausted to think.

“Then buck up,” Bertie says bluntly. “Stop sitting in my office whinging and get your damned arse back to work.”

“I hate you,” Draco says, but he doesn’t. They both know that. 

Bertie grins at him and lifts his mug. “Drink up, Malfoy. Fuck knows you’re going to need something strong in your belly to face down today. Now get your tits back on.”

Draco reaches for his tea. He wishes to hell that Bertie was wrong. The last thing he wants to do is go back into that incident room and work with Potter. Not feeling what he does right now. 

Circe, but he’s fucked his life up.

***

There's a Hit Wizard waiting outside the interview room they’ve brought Wrightson to. Harry is surprised that this section isn't under Auror guard, as it normally is, but he supposes the policing's been so thin with Azkaban needing more Aurors that they've resorted to this. Still, he doesn’t like it. He still doesn’t trust Peasegood any further than he can throw him, and he doesn’t think Gawain should either. It’s not his call, though, and he knows Halliwell disagrees with him, as do half the Chief Inspectors. Bertie Aubrey’s the only other one who’s spoken out in meetings against Peasegood; they’ve both been shouted down.

"Inspector Harry Potter here to interview Marcus Wrightson," Harry says to the diffident, young Hit Wizard. Harry shows his warrant card; the young wizard's straight, black fringe falls into his face when he examines it. 

“Right, sir.” When the Hit Wizard hands it back, there’s a smile on his face. “You took my sister to Madame Puddifoot’s once.” At Harry’s raised eyebrow, he adds. “Cho Chang.”

Harry feels his face warm. He doesn’t want to know what Cho might have said to her family about that disastrous date. “I did.” He pockets his warrant card. “How is she?”

“Brilliant, sir.” Chang starts to unward the door. “Went into diplomacy, actually. She’s been in the Berlin wizarding embassy for the past few years, but she just went over to Ottawa last month.”

“Good for her.” Harry’s not surprised. During his time with the ICW, he’d heard Cho was working with an international commission on wand standards.  
"Harry, there you are!" Hermione strides down the narrow hallway, her dark Unspeakable robe fluttering behind her. She nods to Chang. "Please be on your toes for this one. Don't hesitate to sound an alarm if you need to.”

“Standard protocols?” Chang asks. He clearly respects Hermione. “Or high alert?”

Hermione nods. “The latter.” She looks over at Harry. “Wouldn’t you say?”

“I doubt Wrightson’ll try anything,” Harry says, “but he does know Auror procedures, so yeah. I’d raise the protocol levels just in case. No deadly force, though, if something happens. Keep it simple. I want him hale and hearty for his fucking Wizengamot hearing.”

“Absolutely, sir.” Chang finished unwarding the door. “Are you ready?”

“Give us a minute?” Harry asks, and Chang nods, stepping off to the side. Harry looks over at Hermione. “You play good Unspeakable; I’ll play bad Auror?” he asks with a smile. It's a joke between them from too many nights sprawled in front of the telly, laughing about what The Bill would look like in the wizarding world. 

Hermione's lips quirk. "Yeah. And then the WPS will have our bollocks for intimidation." She twists a curl around her fingertip. 

She's nervous, Harry realises. It’s an old tell from their schooldays. This is her first interrogation in ages; she usually prefers to stay out of them, but Croaker’s insisted that she sit in on all of this week’s interviews to represent the Department of Mysteries. Evidently he thinks the Aurors aren’t doing their job properly. Harry hates to tell him, but suspects don’t often crack in the first interview. Or the second, even. Not unless they’re first-time offenders. Or kids, but Harry doesn’t care for those sorts of interviews, really.

"I don't think we're going to get him to talk," Harry says. "He hasn’t yet, so if you're anxious, don't be. He's a vicious bastard, but he'll likely stay silent. He wants to drag this out as long as he can. Keep an eye on his non-verbals, though. Wrightson’s good--brilliant poker-face--but if we push him the right way, he might accidentally give us something."

Hermione takes a breath, then frowns. "We'll see, I suppose. The bastard has to talk at some point." Harry’s not so sure. He’s seen suspects refuse to break all the way through to their Wizengamot hearings. It wouldn’t surprise him if Wrightson’s one of them. Hermione gestures to the door. "After you, Inspector Potter."

Chang opens the door for them. Harry lays a hand on his arm as he walks past. “Three knocks if we need you,” he says, and Chang nods. Harry likes him, he thinks. As many issues as he might have with the Hit Wizards as a whole, there are some good people in among Peasegood’s ranks.

He steps into the interview room and draws up short.

The decline in Wrightson's appearance is actually shocking to Harry. It’s been four days since Harry’d last interviewed him, but Wrightson’s sandy blond hair is unkempt, and his wide, sneering face is bruised and scabbed over on one side. His grey prisoner’s robe is spattered with blood stains across the front. Harry knows that he can't control what retribution the guards here take on one of their own caught working with Death Eaters, but he's half a mind to complain to Robards directly.

They take their seats across the table, Harry first, then Hermione.

Wrightson looks down at his thick fingers, the skin on his knuckles split and scabby, then he flicks his fingernails against the scarred surface of the wooden table. His wrists are fixed to the surface by a lesser variant of the Incarcerous; he can still move them somewhat.

Hermione casts the recording charm. "Unspeakable Hermione Granger of the British Department of Mysteries and Inspector Harry Potter of the London Auror force interviewing Marcus Brian Wrightson, an Inspector of the London Auror force, at ten-thirty-three a.m. on the twenty-sixth of June, two thousand and six. Mr Wrightson, you remain under caution. Anything you say may be given in evidence, etcetera. As per your status as an Auror, you have the right to be questioned by an officer of your own rank or one rank higher, should you wish, as well as legal representation, which I understand you continue to refuse.”

Harry leans back in his chair, surveying the scene without really focusing. He can feel Hermione's intent resolve next to him; she's razor sharp in her focus. Wrightson keeps looking down at his hands. He hasn't even really acknowledged their arrival, although Harry can tell by the stiff way he’s holding his burly shoulders that it's costing him effort.

"Mr. Wrightson,” Hermione says, “we're here to ask you some questions about your involvement with recent events. Tell me about your visits to Azkaban prison." Hermione stays forward, projecting strength and fearlessness.

“No comment,” Wrightson says then, his voice low and rough. 

Hermione repeats her question. "Tell me about your visits to Azkaban. We know you've been there, Inspector Wrightson. We have evidence in the form of an Azkaban visitor’s log in which your name appears no less than eight times since the beginning of the year. Always to James Selwyn or Rodolphus Lestrange." She leans forward, across the table. The lamp floating above them casts shadows across her face. “Neither of whom were involved in cases you were working.”

Wrightson looks away. “No comment.”

At a look and a nod from Hermione, Harry pushes back his chair, the legs scraping loudly against the stone floor, and stands up. Wrightson's eyes flick over to him, then away. He’s nervous, Harry can tell. Good. Harry’s been working on him for a week now, doing everything he can to intimidate the man short of hexing him. 

“We’re only trying to help you, Marcus,” Hermione says, her voice taking on a gentle lilt. “It’s just...well. You can see how it looks for you, between these logs and Sergeant Whitaker’s statement on her interaction with you on the seventh of June whilst at Azkaban.” She opens up a file jacket. 

Harry circles behind Wrightson. It's an unsettling tactic, a way to shake a prisoner. Technically they don't use it a lot, but it's different with an Auror. Harry needs to get under Wrightson’s skin, play a few mind games. Wrightson sits perfectly still, his gaze flicking towards Harry when it can. He doesn’t turn his head.

“Sergeant Whitaker says, and I quote, ‘Inspector Marcus Wrightson threatened my life, casting the Killing Curse at me, as he admitted to being sympathetic to certain known Death Eater factions.” Hermione flips the parchment to the next page. “And again, in Sergeant Whitaker’s own words: ‘Wrightson suggested he had been paid for his assistance to these unidentified persons, and offered me a place within the organisation.’ Can you elaborate further on these accusations, Inspector?”

Wrightson’s jaw works, but he keeps his face blank. “No comment.”

Harry rests his hands on Wrightson’s tight shoulders. Wrightson flinches, then relaxes. He can't twist around to look at Harry.

"So they've been roughing you up in here," Harry notes, almost leaning over Wrightson's shoulder, his breath in Wrightson’s ear. “Terrible, isn’t it? Your own men turning on you? Thinking you’re a fucking shit for colluding with a Death Eater? They whispered about you when you took Malfoy on your team last year, didn’t they?” He laughs, softly. “Yeah, I know. I’ve had the same sideways looks myself lately. But he’s a fucking good Auror. And they’re starting to realise that. Besides, it’s a bit different with me. I’m the Saviour of the bloody Wizarding World, aren’t I? You’re just a piece of shit Auror who got caught with his hand in the till, taking money to do Death Eaters’ dirty work.”

He steps back with a nod towards Hermione.

“We have your Gringotts records,” Hermione says, pushing a sheet of parchment across the table. “Four separate transfers since January. Small enough. Nothing over two hundred-fifty Galleons at a time. Easily explainable as an extra job on the side, maybe you selling something. It’s even less than your monthly pay packet, so it wouldn’t have made the goblins curious, and it wouldn’t have had to be reported.” She crosses her arms on the table. “You’re a smart one, Marcus. But when it comes to Althea Whitaker, either you shouldn’t have trusted her or you should have bloody well killed her.”

Wrightson turns his head, looks away. His mouth tightens, and Harry watches him closely. There’s something about Whitaker that’s putting Wrightson off. 

“You’re fond of her, aren’t you?” Harry asks. He moves closer, looking at Hermione from behind Wrightson’s back. “That’s why you missed with the Killing Curse. You couldn’t bear actually taking her life.”

A muscle in Wrightson’s jaw flutters. Harry knows he’s right. 

He bends back down. “She’s on my team now,” he murmurs. “She asked to transfer there because she bloody well hates you now. You disappointed her, Wrightson. Broke whatever tiny fragment of a bloody heart Whitaker has buried inside of her. She thinks you’re a sodding piece of shit now. How does that make you feel?”

Wrightson just presses his lips together, stares down at the scarred top of the table. His hands flex against it, then clench again. Harry wonders if he‘s thinking about decking him. There’s a part of him that wishes Wrightson would, that thinks about loosening his Incarcerous so he can. It’s a mad, fleeting thought, but the shame of it settles deep in Harry’s belly. He doesn’t know what the fuck’s wrong with him today. Baiting Malfoy. Baiting Wrightson. Feeling the prickle of it beneath his skin, like an itch that’s desperate to be scratched. The last time he’d felt this way had been after the war. He’d spent hours in the training gym trying to spar it out. He needs to go back, he thinks. Bleed this strange anger out of his system with a good sweat. Or a rough fuck, but that’s not bloody likely given Malfoy’s mood today, and Harry’s starting to realise he doesn’t want anyone else in his bed. 

“Harry,” Hermione says quietly, but Harry can’t stop himself. That feeling’s welling up again, that urge to push someone, to lash out. 

“Took her under your wing, did you?” Harry circles to the side, a difficult position for Wrightson to see. “Thought you’d step into her father’s shoes, yeah? Be a mentor? Or was it her knickers you wanted in--”

“Shut it,” Wrightson shouts, his hands slamming against the table top. He’s breathing hard; his mouth presses shut, into a thin, hard line. He looks away. 

Harry squats beside Wrightson. “She’s ashamed of you,” he says. “We all are. There’s talk of just throwing you back in Azkaban, you know. With the Dementors. They've a special containment unit there now. We might be able to get you a visit, see what happened to the people you helped kill."

Wrightson's shoulders tense up, but he doesn’t say anything. His face blanches slightly.

Harry knows he's threatening a witness, knows that this might not be admissible if he goes much further. He stands up. “No comment again?” he asks. “One of these days you’ll break, Marcus, trust me. And whilst we’re waiting for that, my team’s out there building a case against you, brick by bloody brick, each one that we’ll use to seal you back in Azkaban for the rest of your miserable life. So if you’ve anything to say…” Harry trails off, waiting.

Wrightson licks his lips, his gaze fixed on the door. “No fucking comment,” he says. 

Hermione gives him a cool, appraising look. "Well, when you're ready to talk, Mr Wrightson." She nods at Harry, and he walks over to the door

"As if you could break me, girl," Wrightson says, almost under his breath.

Hermione smiles, leaning back a little in her chair. "Oh, I've no doubt I can, Mr Wrightson. It's just a question of how much is left of you afterwards." She pushes her chair back and stands, gathering her file jackets.

Harry raps three times on the door, and it swings open. Chang steps in. “Sir,” he says. Another Hit Wizard’s in the hallway, waiting.

"Send him back to his cell." Harry says. He doesn't even look back. Hermione follows him out of the door.

They’re halfway down the hall before Hermione looks over at him. “Whitaker,” she says, and Harry nods. 

“Let him cool his heels for a day,” Harry says. “Then bring her in. Let her take lead.”

Hermione stops, turning towards Harry. “It’ll be hard for her.” 

“She’s strong,” Harry says. “I trust her to keep her head on.”

Hermione bites her lip. “Yeah. But let me take her for a trial run first. I want to see her interview style before I throw her in with that sodding bastard.” She glances down at the stack of files in her hands. “Malfoy senior’s scheduled for tomorrow. Let me have her for that one.”

Harry hesitates. “There’s bad blood between her and Malfoy. My Malfoy, I mean. Not Lucius.”

A small smile quirks Hermione’s mouth. “Your Malfoy.”

“You know what I mean,” Harry says. He can feel his face warm. “I’m just saying, Malfoy’s already narked at me for bringing her onto the team.” That’s a bloody fucking understatement. He’ll be even angrier if Harry lets Althea take point in interviewing his father. Then again, other than him, there’s no one else on the team who can do it properly. Malfoy himself is recused, for obvious reasons, and Harry doesn’t want to put Zabini or Parkinson in front of Lucius Malfoy. He knows them as Malfoy’s friends, and Harry doesn’t want to use that relationship against them. 

Hermione shrugs. “Then let it be my call. If he’s angry, tell him I insisted. Which I am. Wrightson has a weak spot for her, and I’m damned well going to use it. But I want her tested out first.”

“All right.” Harry shoves his hands in his pockets and starts down the hall again, Hermione at his side. “She’s the arresting Auror on record for Wrightson, so she’d have the right to interview him anyway. Let’s try her out tomorrow, then tell her she’s going after that one back there.” He jerks his head back towards the interview room.

“You think she’ll do it?” Hermione asks.

Harry considers. Whitaker’s an unknown to him, a bloody time bomb ticking away in the middle of his team. Still, there’s something about her that he thinks he might be able to trust. Eventually. He sighs. “Yeah. I think she’s just angry enough at him that she’ll try.”

“All we need is a crack,” Hermione says. She glances over at him. “Fancy a coffee? Just the two of us, no work talk?”

Harry thinks back to the tension in his incident room. He doesn’t want to walk back into that. Not yet at least. “Sure,” he says.

Hermione beams at him, and he drapes an arm over her shoulder, pulling her close.

Christ, Harry’s missed her. It’s good to be working together again.

**

Althea’s elbows-deep in the third evidence box when the door to the incident room opens and Malfoy walks in. She stills, almost wishing there weren’t anti-Apparation wards on the Ministry office floors, so she could whisk herself away. She’s been alone in the room for half an hour; Parkinson’s back in her lab, Potter’s off interviewing Wrightson, and Zabini’s down in the Department of Mysteries, fuck if she knows why.

Malfoy stops, his hand on the door knob, looking at her. Althea pulls files out of the box and sets them on her desk. The tension between them is palpable. 

Then Malfoy closes the door behind him and walks over to his desk. He looks a bit rumpled and worn out, and she thinks she gets a whiff of firewhisky as he strides past her. It’s barely eleven, so it must have come from someone’s secret stash, she thinks. Probably Bertie Aubrey’s. He likes to think he’s more subtle than he is. 

She keeps her gaze averted as Malfoy drops into his chair and reaches for a stack of paperwork. He flips through it, the only sound in the room the rustle of parchment as they both sort through their files. 

Merlin, it’s bloody uncomfortable. Althea wonders why she ever thought this was a good idea. Malfoy hates her. Zabini hates her. Parkinson tolerates her, but Althea suspects part of that’s just being two women in a bloody male-dominated profession. After a while, you learn to look out for your own, whether or not you like each other. She doesn’t even know what Potter thinks of her, although he’d at least agreed to take her on. Maxie’d told her she was being stupid, putting in for Seven-Four-Alpha, but Althea’d wanted to work with Potter, and she hadn’t lied earlier about being impressed by the team during the Manor raid. They fascinate her. 

Besides, Althea’s a bloody masochist. Maxie’s right about that. She’d fought to get on Wrightson’s team, and he hated women in the force. She’d passed muster just because he’d seen her as one of the boys, titless and into birds, just like the rest of them. And so she’d played that side of her up, become a lad, even as she’d hated it. 

She doesn’t think she’ll have to do that here, and that’s a fucking relief. 

Althea glances over at Malfoy. He flips another piece of parchment. He’s an odd one, she thinks. She’s hated him for years. Resented him, even. He’s been a symbol of Dolohov and Yaxley to her since she’d first found out he’d been Marked, back when she was still in Hogwarts and he’d come back to finish up that last year after the war. She’d despised him, focused all her anger on him, and when she’d come up behind him in training, she’d worked so sodding hard so she could be better than him because she would not--could not--let a fucking Death Eater be part of her force.

Now she thinks she’s made a mistake.

It’d been easy to go after Malfoy. Half her training class had. Most of the Aurors she’d worked with hadn’t trusted him further than they could throw him. Zabini was liked, at least well enough to go for drinks down the Leaky. But Malfoy? No one could get past his father, now could they?

And then Althea’d watched Malfoy take Lucius down three weeks past, and she doesn’t think she could have done that. Not if it were her dad. 

She respects the bloody hell out of Malfoy for that. It doesn’t mean she likes him. Or trusts him. But she thinks maybe her hatred might have been misplaced. 

Circe, but she hates being wrong.

“Stop staring at me,” Malfoy says, not looking over. “If you have something to say, say it.”

“I don’t.” It’s an automatic reply, sharp and angry. Althea purses her lips and looks down at the file spread out in front of her. It’s a listing of everything taken from the Prague house. She knows it practically by heart. 

Malfoy snorts. “Please.”

Althea looks over at him then. “What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”

“You’re practically vibrating.” Malfoy signs the bottom of his parchment and glances at her. His expression is impassive. “So again, if you’ve something to say to me, then just do it. We have to work together.” A frown flits across his face. “For now.”

That sounds like a threat, and Althea doesn’t like it. “You can sod the fuck off.”

Malfoy sets the paper aside and reaches for another. “That’s more like the Althea I know and hate.”

Althea wants to punch his pointy, snide face. She keeps her hands flat on the desk instead. “Look, Malfoy,” she says. “I don’t like you. You don’t like me. But I’m sorry I’ve been a--what were you going to call me this morning before Parkinson stopped you?”

“I’d rather not say,” Malfoy says flatly. He looks away. “I apologise for being rude.”

“Thank you, I suppose.” Althea scowls at him. It’s not the first time she’s been called that during her time on the force. Her male Aurors seem to think it’s fine to throw that word in her face, that she shouldn’t object because they’re just joking about, aren’t they? At least Malfoy’d wanted to be objectionable in the moment. “What you were at least thinking was definitely rude as well as sexist, but effective. I’d be more than happy to point out that you’re one as well. Not to mention a prick, scrotum and arsehole, in whatever terminology, boorish or otherwise, you’d like to use.” Before he can say anything, she goes on. “So consider this my own apology, because I’m not going anywhere. I’m going to be part of this team and I’m going to work hard, and I don’t give a flying Hippogriff fuck if you like me or not because I’m going to prove my worth, yeah?”

Malfoy leans back in his chair, watching her. “You’re right,” he says after a moment. “I think you’re a shit who’s spent years harassing me for a stupid mistake I made as a kid. I don’t like you, but I do have to work with you, and someone pointed out to me today that I’ve worked with worse Aurors than yourself. So I’ll call it a truce if you do, but the minute you go after me again, I will make your existence on this team a goddamned living nightmare. Am I clear?”

“Crystal,” Althea says, and she relaxes a bit. She’d rather be straightforward about this, if she’s honest. It’s the Ravenclaw in her. 

“Good.” With a flick of his wand, Malfoy sends his paperwork zipping into Potter’s office. He stands up and looks at her. “Do you need help sorting through that shit?”

Althea wants to say no, but she’s not an idiot. She recognises a conciliatory gesture when she sees one. “Could do,” she says. “The guv’s wanting fresh eyes on it.”

“Of course he does.” Malfoy’s mouth tightens just a bit. “What he isn’t telling you is half this box is complete bollocks.” He drags his chair over to her desk and grabs a file jacket off the top of the pile. He flips it open. “This? Bollocks. It’s not Dolohov’s; it’s Anichka’s. Fifty years out of date, and I’m fairly certain the Czech Aurors included it because they’re arseholes.”

Althea glances at the file; it’s filled with yellowing receipts written in a swooping cursive. All in Czech, of course. “Not helpful.”

“My point exactly.” Malfoy tosses it back in the box. He pulls out another file jacket and shoves it at her. “This is a bit better.”

It feels surreal to be sitting with Malfoy like this, Althea thinks. It’s not something she would have considered even a month past. And yet, it feels right. 

“You’re still a twat,” she says, just to make herself feel better, and Malfoy just sneers in return. 

Althea flips open the file and hides her smile.

***

When Draco gets home at half-six, tired and still out of sorts with Potter, who he’d spent the rest of the day ignoring, his mother’s still in her dressing gown. She's curled into the corner of the sitting room sofa, nursing a cup of tea and looking at an old photo album he'd tucked away in the bookcases. He doesn't know how she found the damned thing, to be honest. He’d stuck it on a bottom shelf years ago, along with some of his textbooks from school that he’d kept for some inexplicable reason, and he’d forgotten all about them. The album’s filled with photographs of Draco, mostly from when he was five and six, all white blond curls and the scratchy, lace collared childhood suits he’d loathed and that his mother had found charming. It makes Draco wince to see himself that vulnerable and open in the softly moving photos.

"You were a pretty child." Narcissa runs a finger down the yellowed page next to a photo of Draco with his first broom, his mother kneeling beside him, holding him upright. “Too pretty, I suppose. Perhaps I shouldn’t have dressed you in lace.”

Draco resists the urge to roll his eyes. His mother might claim to be supportive of his sexuality, but there are still moments she says something objectionable. He doesn’t want the fight going after that will produce, though, so he just says, "Mother, don't be dour. I can’t bear it tonight." He does hate it when his mother gets into these moods. It’s not that he doesn’t understand it. He came by his melodramatic streak honestly. Rather hard for him not to have one, really, given that his parents both love to indulge in the theatrical.

Narcissa sighs and closes the album. "I'm sorry I'm making your life harder by being here, but I've just lost my home and I hardly know what to do."

And there’s the guilt. Draco toes off his boots and hangs his satchel on the hook in the foyer. He doesn't want to shout at his mother. It's the last thing he needs right now after this day from hell.

"Is there still tea?" he asks instead. 

His mother opens her mouth, then closes it again, without saying anything, an abashed expression crossing her face, and Draco realises she was about to call for one of the Manor elves. She settles back against the arm of the sofa, her fingers plucking at the edge of her dressing gown. "You might want to make a fresh pot."

Draco walks into the kitchen, noticing a haphazard pile of plates and tea cups on the counter. His mother tries, she does, but she has no earthly idea how to pick up after herself. Or wash the bloody dishes.

With a sigh, he begins rinsing plates and stacking them in the dishwasher. He'd bought her ready meals from Waitrose that she can heat up with a warming charm--it's all he could think of under the circumstances. Her cooking skills are barely up to making the occasional egg. As much as he loves his mother, she’s bloody useless when it comes to daily tasks. He supposes it’s not surprising. She’d gone from her parents’ house to school to the Manor, never once living on her own. There’d always been elves running to help her. And that’s the irony of it all, isn’t it? His mother is brilliant at managing a houseful of elves, practically a powerhouse, really, making sure everything’s running well, that rooms are being maintained, that none of the elves are unhappy or being ill-treated. Take all that away, and she’s like a child, overwhelmed by the simplest bit of self-care.

"Did you see your father today?" Narcissa asks from the doorway as Draco's filling the kettle.

Draco puts it back on the hob, setting it alight with a flick of his wand. "No. I'd have to go down to the Department of Mysteries for that. He's still in custody with the Unspeakables." He doesn’t add that he hadn’t the stomach for it. Not today, at least. He knows his father’s on the interview schedule for tomorrow. He supposes he’ll need to be present for that, at least. 

Narcissa hesitates, folding the collar of her dressing gown between her fingers. "Are you sure he's all right, Draco?" She bites her lip. Draco doesn’t know when the last time he’d seen her without a full face of makeup on had been. She looks pale and young without her bright red lipstick and darkened eyebrows. "Forgive me. I know this is how it had to be."

“He’s fine.” Draco walks over, puts his hands on his mother’s shoulders. “He’s not being mistreated. I promise.” Not like Wrightson and Bates, at least. Potter’d come back this afternoon and admitted as much about them, his face grim. He’ll be putting in a report to Robards, but Draco doubts anything will actually happen. An Auror in custody like that was likely to have a bit of harsher treatment, wasn’t he? It’s not right, Draco thinks, but he’s not surprised. He knows some of the arseholes he works with--he's been roughed up by a few of them as well.

“You’re certain?” Narcissa studies his face. 

“Granger wouldn’t stand for it.” Draco gives his mother a swift kiss on her cheek, then heads over to the refrigerator, peering in. Nothing worth talking about for cooking. He'll have to conjure up some takeout. He doesn't want to cut into his mother’s stash of ready meals. He won’t have time to market until midweek. He takes a stack of menus from one of the island drawers. "What would you like to try today? Afghan lamb curry? Ethiopian injera? Szechuan Chinese?"

They settle on Italian from the wizarding place around the corner. He knows he should be cooking more, but he just can't under the circumstances. He’s too damned tired to stand over the hob, even for something simple like a spag bol. Better to let it be brought to him. 

Draco goes to the Floo and places their order. It’ll arrive in fifteen minutes, he’s told. Thank Merlin. He’s hungry; he’d been too wound up to eat much all day. The kettle is whistling, so he goes back into the kitchen to pour the tea.

"Are you sure you don't want something stronger?" His mother’s sitting at the island counter. "I saw your stash of whiskies."

Draco does, but he’s reluctant to start drinking with his mother here, although he supposes he has the best of excuses. Still, he doesn't want to fall apart in front of her, and it would take very little to unravel the fragile hold he has on his psyche right now.

"No, I think I'd rather not." Draco suddenly sees his father's face, ruddy and trembling for lack of alcohol. He'd definitely better control his own drinking more, he thinks, not to mention the issue of going to fat. Circe, but he wishes he’d taken that run on the way home that he’d wanted earlier today. He needs it. Perhaps later, when his mother’s settled for the evening. Draco likes running at night, beneath the bright glow of the Muggle neon lights. He pours the boiling water over the loose tea leaves in the plain white china pot he favours. “A tea will be brilliant.”

"Did you have a good day at work?" His mother leans against the counter. Her blonde hair’s loose around her shoulders, and he gets a glimpse of the girl she once was. 

Draco sets the teapot down on a ceramic trivet, and takes his mother's cup. "It wasn’t my best day," he admits.

Narcissa eyes him. "What happened? Was it a problem with Potter?"

Draco turns to the sink and dumps out the remnants in his mother's cup. "Not exactly. Although, yes, I suppose." He sighs. "He put someone on the team without telling me, someone who’s made my life a living hell at work for years." He looks over at her as he walks back to the refrigerator and pulls out the milk. “Althea Whitaker.”

“Oh.” His mother knows about Althea. Draco’s ranted about her since Althea first went after him in training. Narcissa’s eyes narrow. "But Potter’s your, what is it, SIO?" It's almost comical, his mother attempting to use Auror terminology.

"Yes." Draco splashes a bit of milk into his mother’s empty cup, then into a clean one for himself. "But he's a lying arsehole." He sends the milk flying back into the refrigerator with a flick of his wand.

"But isn't it his job to make decisions he doesn't tell you about?" His mother frowns, her finger tracing a small circle against the marble of the island counter.

Draco can feel the scowl take over his face. "I thought he trusted me a bit more than that."

His mother lays a gentle hand on his arm. "He probably didn't want to hurt you, Draco. But he has to do his job too." She hesitates. “I know he’s a Gryffindor, but it’s actually in your best interests that he withhold things from you.”

“But--”

Narcissa shakes her head. “Think, Draco. You’re trying to hide your relationship, yes?”

“It’s not a fucking relationship,” Draco says, and then he feels sorry for swearing. He won’t apologise, though. He’s a bloody grown man now, not a teenager. “And all he wanted was to keep me from throwing a strop before he could wrangle bloody Althea in.”

“I can’t blame him for that,” Narcissa says calmly. “Still, whatever his reason, the end result is the same. He protected you, in his own awkward little way. Your colleagues will cotton on to your connection with him far sooner if you know things in advance from Potter.”

Draco knows she's right, of all people, and he just can't handle it. Everyone knows what's right. His mother, Bertie, even Pans and Blaise. But Draco knows what he feels, and it’s a sharp, deep pain that he doesn’t want to look at too closely. Like a fool, he’d wanted more from Potter. He doesn’t think he’ll get it. And so he changes the subject. "Have you made any progress with Aunt Dromeda?"

His mother’s nostrils flare, as they only do when she’s irritated or uneasy and trying to hide it. "If you mean have I contacted my estranged sister and begged her to take me in, the answer is not yet."

Draco feels a right arse for the question, and his mother's attempt to guilt him again is working. He hates that. He pulls the tea from the pot, then pours them each a cup, the soft scent of the milky tea rising up . "Only I thought you were going to at least be in touch with her." He knows it’s hard for his mother. She doesn’t like admitting she’s been wrong, and she’s terrified that her sister will reject her. She won’t, Draco knows that, but he thinks it’s harder for his mother to accept that. She’s afraid Andromeda will blame her for Nymphadora’s death. And his Uncle Ted’s. 

Maybe she will. At least for a little bit. Draco wouldn’t hold that against her, but he also knows that his aunt’s welcomed him into her home, whenever he goes, and he can’t imagine she wouldn’t want to see her own sister.

Narcissa frowns, picking up the teacup he pushes towards her. "It's not as simple as all that, Draco."

He's saved from her defensive scorn by the Floo chime. "I'll go get the food then." Draco beats a hasty retreat. Honestly, his mother can be impossible at times.

He carries the carefully packed bags of bread and butter and pasta and fish to the island and fills two plates. He puts one in front of his mother, and the other at another stool. Surprisingly, Narcissa doesn’t complain about not eating properly at the dining room table. Instead, she just slips off her chair and grabs the cutlery from the drawers. Draco brings over a bottle of white wine, and she doesn't wave it away. She’s getting used to his odd habits, he thinks, and that makes him love her dearly.

They clink glasses. "To family," Draco says, and they drink.

Draco wishes he could just disappear into his bedroom with a headache and never come out. He’s so damned tired. And worried. The tightness in his chest comes back, and he drains half his wineglass in one gulp, hoping that will help ease it a bit. It doesn’t. He eats, but as hungry as he is, he only makes it through the fish and a bit of the pasta before his appetite disappears again. He hates this; he’s starting to think that he’ll need to go back to a Healer for calming potions again. He’d spent years on them after the war, and they’d helped, but he’d thought he could wean himself off. Maybe he’d been wrong about that.

His mother scolds him as he pushes his pasta around on his plate. "Stop fretting. I can hear you being moody from over here, son of mine.” 

Draco grimaces. "Sometimes I think I should just give up, maybe just move away and start again." He’s surprised by his honesty. It must be the wine.

His mother, to his surprise, laughs and picks up her glass. "You did always have a taste for the dramatic. Remember when you wanted to go manage a hotel in Austria?"

He’d been ten, and they'd been on a skiing holiday with friends of his parents. After the umpteenth time Draco’d fallen on his arse, he’d been furious that he couldn't master this strange sport immediately and had threatened to run away, down the hill, to the quaint Muggle town with its grand hotel.

"Perhaps I should have," he says bitterly, pouring more wine for his mother. He doesn’t top his own glass up.

"Balderdash." She raises her glass. "The best way to make Potter suffer is to be a pain in his arse."

"You've changed your tune," Draco says. "I thought you wanted me to transfer." His eyes go to the post basket and the paperwork tucked away. 

Narcissa’s silent for a moment, turning her wine glass between her fingertips. “Perhaps.” She studies him. “However, I might be wrong.” She takes a sip of wine. “Honestly, I’m not certain any longer. Particularly since it seems everyone’s in custody at your headquarters."

She's not wrong, Draco thinks. He draws in a slow breath, scraping his fork across his pasta. The tines screech against the china. "I'm sure Robards could use me for something. Or I could leave the force altogether. Escape to an Alpine town and find a hotel to run."

His mother sets down her glass, her eyes bright. "Draco Lucius Malfoy. I did not raise you to be a coward. Running away won't solve anything."

You did raise me to be a coward, though, Draco thinks. Or at least a submissive twat with a penchant for revenge. "But it's nice to contemplate after a day like today." He lifts his glass of wine to his mouth. 

"Keep eating,” Narcissa says, “and tell me about it." She reaches over, squeezes his hand gently. She doesn’t let go. 

Oddly, the touch relaxes Draco, loosening the tight band across his chest. He scoops up a forkful of pasta. His mother irritates the piss out of him, but her levelheadedness also calms him. He's grateful for her presence of mind tonight.

Still, he’s going to firecall her sister if she bloody well doesn't. 

Draco might adore his mother, but he’s too damned old and too damned anxious to keep living with her like this.

“You’re going to drive me mental, you know,” he says.

His mother just smiles.

***

At half-eleven on Tuesday morning, Pansy's sat at her workbench, staring at the messy pile of materials scattered across it, each individually bagged. Now that she's tested and typed all of the most important remains related to the Soul Grass and Devil's Snare, not to mention the mycological residues, she's got a jumble of artefacts from the evidence boxes to try to relate to their case by analysis. This mountain of plastic-bagged bits and pieces are the first things that Althea and Draco picked out yesterday afternoon. Frankly, none of it makes any bloody rhyme or reason, she thinks. It’s like a charity shop exploded in her lab. Again.

She’d meant to grab a coffee two hours ago. She still hasn’t.

Pansy doesn't really know where to begin with all this mayhem, so she's been puttering around in the notes to the materials. An old shoe buckle that has some sort of charm on it. A potions bottle with Czech writing. Another type of salve, probably Muggle. Several things that have come into contact with _Boletus gabretae_ spores. An old pair of leather gloves with a strange magical signature. She groans and puts her head in her hands. Honestly sometimes they just drop shit on her workbench and expect her to work sodding miracles. 

"Are you starting up a side business in secondhand goods?" Durant's voice comes from the doorway.

Pansy looks up, surprised. "What are you doing here?" She doesn’t think Durant’s ever been on this level. The labs for the Department of Mysteries are far better funded to begin with. Durant gives her that easy, charming smile of his, and Pansy’s a bit flustered. She suddenly sees what Blaise--and evidently Potter--see in him. 

"I'm here to talk about Dementors," Durant says.

Well. That wasn’t what she was expecting either, although she supposes she ought to have been. She’s gone through the report that Granger sent up yesterday, the one Durant himself had written. It’d been disturbing, to say the least. "Right. Let me pack this up." She puts all of the materials back into the cardboard box labelled _Misc. Lab Testing I_.

"May I come in?" Durant asks. “Unless you have something volatile in process?” 

"It’s fine." Pansy sets the lid on the box. She knows she's being a bit terse. She doesn't care. She’s tired, and this case worries her. She doesn’t like the toll it’s taking on Draco, to begin with. Or the rest of them, really. It’s a big case. A case that’ll make careers, she thinks, and she’s not so certain she’s glad of that. These sorts of cases can end them as well. She knows Draco’s narked off about Althea being brought on, but Pansy’s grateful in a way. They need more people, she thinks, and someone like Althea could help take the pressure off them, and not only in a practical way. If this all blows up on them, Pansy has every damned intention of stepping back to let the non-Slytherins in the room take the blame. Potter and Althea have their use.

Durant’s footsteps are loud in the quiet lab. Pansy crosses her arms over her chest as he walks over. Her lab robe is a bit smudged, she notices, with old leather particles from the books she was examining earlier. She tries to brush them off discreetly, but it’s impossible.

"Anything interesting?" Durant glances over at the cardboard box.

Pansy knows he's trying to set her at ease. Somehow that fact irritates her more. She doesn’t dislike Durant, but she hasn’t the patience for his charm this morning. She needs coffee and a sodding lab assistant. Or two. She wants to laugh at that thought. Who does she think she is? A researcher with the Unspeakables? "Just out with it, if you will. I've got acres of random evidence to sort."

"Sorry,” Durant says with a contrite duck of his head. “Don’t mean to interrupt. I can go if you need…” He glances to the door, then back at her, his eyebrow raised.

And Pansy believes he means it. She sighs, feeling a bit chagrined. "How was Azkaban?"

Durant raises an eyebrow at that. "I didn't know anyone up here knew."

“I read your report.” Pansy shrugs. "Potter had Granger send it up yesterday. Interesting reading. Disturbing. But interesting.”

“Thanks?” Durant gives her a sideways look. 

Pansy picks up an empty potions bottle and rolls it between her gloved fingers. “Besides, Blaise told me you’d been dragged over. He was worried his grandfather might kill you if the Dementors didn't get to you first."

Durant laughs, low and rich. Pansy's mouth quirks. She sets the bottle back down. "Oh, it was an education and then some." The corners of his eye crinkle when he smiles, but the look in his eyes is solemn.

"So how can I help?" Pansy knows her tone doesn't really convey helpfulness, but, well, he did just come lumbering into her lab. She doesn't like most people in her lab--it interrupts her train of thought and tends to bollocks up the magical instruments. Plus there's no telling how a visitor's aura will affect unknown objects. Durant's fairly low-key and his energy seems mostly non-interactive as far as Pansy can tell. Still, she’s banned Draco from coming in when he's anxious about anything, which is unfortunately all the time now that his father’s in custody. Draco can definitely encourage spontaneous reactions when his anxiety starts to ramp up, and has done since Hogwarts.

Durant shoves his hands into his pockets, looking around the lab. "Is anyone else here?"

"Jonesy left an hour ago for a meeting, so no. Just us." Pansy gives him a curious look. “What’s this about? Other than the fact that you think the Dementors still have some sort of human connection.”

“I’m certain they do.” Durant perches on one of her stools, his boot heel on a rung. "I'm trying to build a case to keep the Ministry from destroying the Dementors." His face is hard to read. "Do you have any data that would help? Blaise mentioned you'd typed the Soul Grass, and Barachiel can tell us how that process works, so that might be a start. But I'm also wondering if you know how to work with spectral residue." 

"You're serious?" Pansy almost wants to laugh, but she can tell from Durant's expression that this would be a mistake. She narrows her eyes. "What did you see, if I may ask? Other than what’s in your report, and I’ve written enough of those to know that’s edited evidence."

Durant sighs, looking away. "It's hard to explain. We took some preliminary readings, and I think I could get samples on another visit if you could tell me what to look for. Barachiel taught me to see their human qualities."

Pansy nods slowly, willfully dislodging the chilling strands of memory that rise up from her own experience with the Dementors, the memories of them at Hogwarts, moving through the corridors, standing around the edges of the Quidditch pitch. "There are basic tests of sentient life forms according to the European Magical Code, and I think Dementors would pass those. Millie would probably be able to tell you better what the forensic requirements are for defining magical creatures--she's great at the legal code."

Durant nods. "That's Millicent Bulstrode, right? I think Harry's mentioned her before."

"She's a Slytherin. And a good friend." Pansy says. "Of ours, that is. Although she weirdly likes Potter. Not quite sure why."

"He has that effect on people." Durant gives her a small, bittersweet smile that Pansy recognizes so well from her own experiences with Tony, that wistful wisp of a broken heart visible. Suddenly Durant seems a lot more human to her as well.

"I can talk to her, if you like. See what we might be able to establish." Pansy thinks for a moment. "There are also ghost experts--I can look through some of the literature and see if I can find anything about verifiable soul traces and distinction between sentience and remnants of energy." She hesitates. “But Blaise’s grandfather’s the necromancer.”

"He’s an artist, not a scientist,” Durant says, and his careful smile is back. “I want data points that I can use, so if you could help, I’d be much obliged. If it's not too much trouble with all the rest of the things your--what do you call him? Your guv’s put on your plate."

Pansy notices that he doesn't say Potter's name. "Glad to help," she says. "Really. I'm glad someone's following protocol right now."

Durant smooths his dress trousers and slides off the stool. "Speaking of, I have to head back downstairs. There's a press event after lunch, and Hermione’s forcing me to be there. I’ve a few more things to get done beforehand." He consults his watch--an old, very nice magical chronograph with a rich cordovan leather band--and gives a muffled swear. "Right. What's the best way back? I took the side stairs, but it seemed a bit round about."

Pansy leads him to the small, corner service lift big enough for bodies and creatures that noone ever uses. "Here, this will get you to the lobby, but you’ll have to take the steps down to the Department of Mysteries. They don’t like making it easy for any of us, do they?" She gives him a faint smile. “Bit of wankers, really.”

“We Unspeakables usually are,” Durant says as Pansy pushes the staff code in and then the button to the Atrium. He gives a little half wave as he steps in and the doors start to close on him. "Thanks, Parkinson. Blaise said you'd help."

Curiouser and curiouser, that last bit, Pansy thinks, and she resolves to grill Blaise when she sees him later. Unspeakable Durant has just given her a bit of capital in their ongoing tug-of-war over each other's romantic lives.

Pansy's not sure what it means, but she definitely intends to find out.

***

"Are you certain you want to do this?" Blaise asks as he and Draco follow Phoebe Rayne into the bowels of the Department of Mysteries, their boots echoing on the black marble floors.

Draco wants to say no, wants to say he's no bloody idea why he's walking towards his father's interview when he has no damned reason to be there. He's been up half the night fretting about it, and the rational side of him thinks it's ridiculously stupid to put himself through this. Still. It's almost a compulsion. He wants to see his father's face during questioning, even if he can't be in the room itself. So he just nods. 

"I'm fine," he says after a moment. Blaise gives him a long look, and Draco glances away. Blaise knows him too well, and if Draco's not careful, Blaise'll grab his elbow and march him away from this madness. 

For the moment, though, Blaise just huffs his disapproval and follows Draco and Rayne around the corner and towards a pair of heavy wooden doors, set side-by-side into the black marble walls. Rayne opens the one on the left. 

"Observation room," she says. "Your father's already in the other."

When Draco steps into the room, Blaise on his heels, Potter's already there, standing tall and broad beside the wide window that looks into the interview room. His arms are crossed over his chest, one hand rubbing his jaw, as he watches Draco's father pace the length of the other room, too-large grey robe dragging along the floor. “Hey,” he says.

"Aren't you supposed to be prepping with Granger?" Draco says, and Potter looks over at Draco, his hand dropping down to cup his elbow. 

"I'm not interviewing him," Potter says. He nods at Blaise. "Morning, Zabini."

"Guv." Blaise drops into one of the armchairs. "I'm just here for moral support."

Draco frowns. "Who's interviewing him?"

Potter gives him a sideways look. "Hermione." He glances back at the window. "And Whitaker."

"Jesus, guv," Blaise says from behind Draco, his voice weary, and Draco can't help but agree. 

"She's what?" Draco demands, stepping closer to Potter. "Have you lost your mind. You must have, because not even you would do something that bloody stupid--"

"Hermione insisted." Potter's not looking at him, but his fingers are digging into his elbows, pressing into the wool of his jacket. "She wants to try Whitaker out before she goes up against Wrightson, and your father’s the best way to test her. Besides you can’t interview him, and neither can Zabini or Parkinson, so it’s me or Whitaker.” He glances over at Draco. “So I gave in to the wishes of the Unspeakable on record.” He looks back at Lucius through the window. “If Whitaker stumbles, I’ll tag in.”

Draco can't believe this. He wants to scream, to hit Potter, to shout him down, telling him what a shit he is. Instead he takes a deep breath and reminds himself that both Bertie and his mother think Potter’s well within his rights to be a prick-faced wanker about this, so perhaps his reaction is a bit extreme. He doubts it, but he’s willing to admit he’s biased and his anxiety about this whole interview is sky-bloody-high. Draco turns towards the window, staring out at his father. Lucius can't see him, of course. He looks steadier today than when Draco had last seen him--he supposes the anti-alcohol abuse potions are working. Still, Lucius' hands are trembling and he looks lost. Draco tries to summon up his anger, his fury even at what his father's done, but he finds he can't properly. A numbness settles into his chest. He grips the sill of the window, swaying against it. It feels a bit hard to breathe; he tries to hide it. 

The door to the interview room opens and Lucius swivels, moving for all the world like a caged beast. Granger enters, file jackets tucked beneath her arm, her hair a halo of dark spirals around her sober, brown face. She's followed by Althea, who looks bloody terrified in Draco's opinion. He shifts from foot to foot, worried. The last thing Althea needs is to let Lucius get even a whiff of weakness. He'll go after her for that.

“Are you certain she’s up for this?” he asks Potter.

Potter doesn’t reply for a moment, then he sighs. “Fuck, but I hope so.” Draco looks over at him; Potter’s expression is tight and grim. His eyes flick towards Draco. “I’m not bloody infallible,” he says. Oddly that admission makes Draco relax a bit. 

"Mr Malfoy," Granger says with a nod towards the seat at the table, facing the window. "If you'll have a seat please?" She glances over at Rayne, who's still in the doorway. "Phoebe, would you mind?"

Rayne steps over to Lucius as he sits. She puts a gentle restraining spell on him, confining him to the chair without binding his hands to the table. Draco's strangely grateful for her civility. And then Granger looks at the window as she takes her seat, and he realises that she's the one who's kept the Incarcerous out of the room. Smart of her; his father would rather have died, he thinks. 

Draco glances back over to Potter--he's standing perfectly still, focused, watching intently. Draco envies him his ability to detach and watch. Draco wraps his arms around himself, willing his stomach to stop flipping. It doesn't work. 

Althea walks past them; her eyes drift towards the window, too, then she takes the chair beside Granger, her back ramrod stiff. Her dark hair's pulled tight into a braid that's coiled at the nape of her neck; she slides her jacket off and drapes it over the back of the chair. Her red shirt's taut across her narrow shoulders; Draco thinks he can see a bit of damp darkness beneath her arms. She's nervous, he realises. He doesn't know if that makes him feel better or not. Still, he'd rather have her apprehensive rather than cocky if she's to face down his father. 

"All right, old man?" Blaise asks from behind him, his voice gentle. 

Draco doesn't answer for a moment, and Potter turns, looking at him. "Malfoy?"

"I'm good," Draco says, but his voice is tight, faint and high. He watches Granger flip through her file jacket. She's trying to put his father on edge, he thinks. 

Granger nods, and Althea casts the recording charm.

"Unspeakable Hermione Granger of the British Department of Mysteries," Granger says, "and Sergeant Althea Whitaker of the London Auror force interviewing Lucius Abraxas Malfoy at eleven-thirty-three a.m. on the twenty-seventh of June, two thousand and six. Prior to this interview, Mr Malfoy's fingerprints and magical signature have been recorded and confirmed within the Auror database as per the Wizengamot Justice and Courts Act of 1999. Mr Malfoy, you remain under caution from your arrest and previous interview. Do you understand?"

"Yes," Lucius says. He looks away. Draco can see his hands trembling against the table. 

"Has he had his potion today?" Draco asks Potter.

Potter steps a bit closer to him. Draco doesn't move away. Even still angry with Potter, he needs him close by. Comforting him. "At breakfast," Potter says.

Draco presses his thumbnail to his mouth, his teeth catching on the edge. He draws in a ragged breath. He doesn't like watching his father like this, doesn't like knowing other people are seeing Lucius with his hair matted and his eyes sharp and wild and slightly mad. His father hadn’t been this bad a few years back. He’d stopped drinking for a while, and it’d almost felt like his father, the one he’d loved for most of his childhood, was coming back. 

It hadn’t lasted.

Althea and Granger bend their heads together; Granger murmurs something unintelligible into Althea's ear and she nods. 

"Mr Malfoy," Althea says. "We're here to question you about a witness' statement regarding the presence of known Death Eaters on your property in the past six months--"

"You're referring to my wife, I believe." Lucius sits up, his palms flattening against the table. It doesn't stop the trembling. His gaze flicks towards the window; Draco steps back, almost worried that his father can see him. "And here I thought spousal testimony wasn't allowed in Wizengamot hearings."

Althea gives him an even look. "Forced spousal testimony isn't. Freely given, however…" She shrugs. "But as I said, our focus today is on the presence of known Death Eaters--"

"Where's my son?" Lucius asks. "I'd have thought he'd have the bollocks to come face me today." His mouth twists to one side. "Or is he too ashamed to see what he's done to his father?"

"Sergeant Malfoy's presence isn't required at the moment," Althea says, and Draco's surprised by her calm demeanor. "We have reason to believe that you aided in the escape of one James Roseus Selwyn, currently in Auror custody--"

Lucius leans forward. "Tell my son I want to speak with him."

Althea doesn't answer for a moment, then she says, "I'm afraid I won't be doing that."

"She's good," Blaise says, and Draco can hear the chair creak as he stands up. He walks over to the window, stopping on Draco's other side.

"Yeah," Potter says. He doesn't look over at either of them. Draco doesn't want to agree, but he can't help himself. He nods and tightens his arms around himself. 

"You," Lucius snaps, turning to Granger. "Mudblood--"

Granger gives him a scathing glare. "I don't answer to that, Mr Malfoy."

Lucius's eyes flick over to the window again. "He's back there, isn't he? Watching me like the sodding coward he is." His voice rises, and Draco flinches. Blaise touches his arm; Draco pulls away. "Do you hear me, Draco? Look at what you've done to your own bloody father--"

Althea slams her hand down on the table, and Lucius jerks back, surprised. "Sergeant Malfoy hasn't a damned thing to do with this, and if you insist on bringing him into this interview, I will end it, and tell Rayne to take your sorry arse back to your cell and bloody well leave you there until you're so goddamned desperate for human contact that you'll be frothing at the mouth to talk to us, do I make myself perfectly clear, Mr Malfoy?"

"Good girl," Potter murmurs.

"She's impressive," Draco says, and Potter looks over at him. Draco sighs. "I don't like her, but I'm not a complete idiot."

Lucius is watching Althea, his eyes narrowed. "You let your bitches talk like that?" he asks Granger. "Do you know who I am, you wretched cow--"

"You're a fucking Death Eater," Althea says calmly. "And you've hidden behind your wife's skirts and your son's warrant card for years, except now they're not protecting you, are they, Malfoy? So I'm going to ask you one more bloody time before Unspeakable Granger and I get up and terminate this interview. Did you assist in James Selwyn in his escape from Azkaban?"

Draco grips the windowsill again, his heart thudding against his chest. He watches his father, sees the moment his shoulders slump, the moment the fight starts to seep out of him. 

"No." Lucius looks away. "I did not."

"Do you know how Selwyn escaped?" Granger asks, and Lucius's gaze flicks towards her. 

"No comment." Lucius licks his bottom lip. 

Draco looks over at Potter. "He knows," he says. "That's his tell. When he's hiding something." He turns back to his father. "I recognise it."

"I think you do know," Althea says. "We have a theory, Mr Malfoy. Would you like to hear it?"

Lucius's mouth tightens. "I rather think I've no choice."

"He's not stupid," Blaise says. 

"Because I think," Althea continues, "that someone was taking his place in Azkaban. Mafalda Hopkirk sometimes. Maybe even you every so often--"

Lucius snorts. 

Althea ignores him. "And Selwyn was going in and out of Azkaban, probably doing what someone else was telling him to do, because let's face it, James Selwyn isn't the brightest wizard any of us have met, is he?"

"Thick as a plank, I'd say." Granger looks up from her file jacket. "Terrible marks at Hogwarts. Nothing like yours, Mr Malfoy."

Lucius glances over at her. "Flattery won't help you, Mudblood."

"Nor insults you," Granger says, her voice calm and even. "So Selwyn. We know he was growing the Soul Grass. We know that he was seen at the Manor by our witness--"

"My wife," Lucius snaps.

"Our witness," Granger says. "Who can also place Antonin Dolohov and Corban Yaxley at your home."

"Interesting." Althea looks over at Granger. "Given that they were supposed to be dead, both of them."

Granger nods. "Killed by Aurors at that. Martin Bates in particular. Also in custody at the moment."

"Funny how that works." Althea turns back to Draco's father. "You understand why we're a bit curious about your part in all of this."

Draco likes the way Granger and Althea work across one another. It's putting his father on edge. "You didn't completely cock up with this one," he says to Potter. "It works to have two women with Father anyway. Pansy insists he's a sodding sexist bastard."

"She's not wrong," Blaise says, and Draco shrugs. 

Potter gives Draco a small smile. "Are you actually complimenting me?"

"Don't get used to it." Draco turns back to the window, but there's something fluttery and warm in him at Potter's long look. 

In the interview room Lucius is silent, his fingers drumming against the tabletop, his body shifted sideways in his chair. 

"Mr Malfoy," Althea says, and her voice softens. "We're willing to consider that you might have become caught up in something you didn't intend to--"

Lucius laughs, sharp and bitter. "Don't bother with the shite. I'm not a babe in the woods, Sergeant." He looks over at Granger. "You of all people know that."

Granger pulls a photograph from one of her file jackets and sets it in front of Lucius. Even from this angle, Draco can tell it's of Abadzhiev's mangled corpse. "Want to tell us, then, how Luka Abadzhiev ended up dead in the dungeons of Malfoy Manor? Because either you killed him, or a member of your household did, which I rather doubt, all things considered, or--and this is what we suspect--Antonin Dolohov did, which again, why the hell were the two of them in your dungeons, Mr Malfoy?"

A look crosses Lucius's face, and Draco frowns. His father's terrified of someone. Dolohov, perhaps? Or someone else?

"If Abadzhiev were killed in my home," Lucius says after a long moment, "I can assure you it was not an action taken by me or anyone under my care. As to your speculation about Dolohov…" Lucius trails off. He looks down at his hands. For a moment, Draco almost feels sorry for his shit of a father. "Such an individual may have been there. Along with a friend. Who may have made threatening statements about members of my family." His gaze goes back up to the window, and Draco's certain his father's looking at him, his eyes dark and shadowed. "After having already acted in a threatening manner towards my son."

"How so?" Althea asks. 

Lucius blinks slowly, like a cobra waiting to strike. His mouth is a thin, angry line. "Perhaps this friend believed it best to control me by harming my son. I wouldn't take kindly to that, Sergeant. I would make certain said individual would understand that I would take action against that. And that person's partner might have agreed with my request."

The breath nearly goes out of Draco. He grips the windowsill tighter, willing himself to stay upright. And then Potter's beside him, his arm around Draco's waist, pulling Draco against him. 

"You're all right," Potter says against Draco's ear, and Draco nods. 

"He's just admitted to murder," Draco says. "For me." He feels unsteady; he's grateful for Potter's arm, for the solid feel of Potter's body against his. He doesn't know what to think; his head's spinning. 

"Only obliquely," Potter says. "But yeah."

Draco exhales. "Circe." He presses his fist to his mouth and leans into Potter. Blaise reaches over and grips Draco's shoulder tightly before letting his hand drop.

Granger's leaning forward. "Is this a formal statement you'd like to make, Mr Malfoy?"

His father hesitates, then says, "Not without a solicitor present. You find me one willing to take my case and I'll talk to you then."

Althea slides the file from Granger's side of the table and flips through it. "Isn't Archibald Burke listed as your solicitor of record?"

"According to Archie," Lucius says between clenched teeth, "it seems my usual firm isn't interested in taking my Galleons any longer." That's news to Draco, and he tenses beneath Potter's arm. "I want a solicitor, and not one of those namby-pamby arseholes who've no idea how to mount a defence. For now, I rather think I'd like to go back to my cell, if you please." His voice is hard, cold. He won't look at either Granger or Althea.

Granger and Althea bend together again, whispering, their mouths barely moving, then Granger nods, and Althea glances back up at Draco's father. "We'll do our best," Althea says, and she stands up, walking to the door and letting Rayne back in to unloose Lucius. 

Draco turns away from the window, his back to his father. He feels a bit ill. 

And then Potter's in front of him, his hands on Draco's arms. "It's all right," he says quietly, and Blaise looks at them, then steps away, giving them a moment of privacy. 

"I didn't think he was involved," Draco says, his voice thick. "I mean, I knew he had to be. We found Abadzhiev in the bloody dungeon after all. But he let it happen. He let that man hang there for days, and did nothing about it." He presses his palm to his mouth. "Merlin, is he gone mad? Or is it just the bloody drink that's got to him? My father--" Draco draws in a ragged breath past his fingers, then exhales. "My father, the one I knew as a child, may have been an arsehole, but he wouldn't have done that."

Potter rests his forehead against Draco's. "I'm sorry," he says quietly, and Draco closes his eyes, leaning in to the careful touch. 

"Draco!" His father's sharp shout pulls Draco away from Potter. He half-turns towards the window again. Lucius is on his feet, his hands free, and he's staring directly into Draco's eyes. "I know you're in there. I can feel it." His father's face twists. "I did everything for you, you little bastard. You keep that in mind, boy." He jerks his arm away from Rayne. "Everything for you. For your future." His eyes are angry and dark. "You put me here. You owe me a bloody solicitor, you sodding little ungrateful shit of a poof." Drops of spittle fly from his mouth. 

"Mr Malfoy, if you don't bloody calm down right now," Althea says, and her hand goes to the hilt of her wand in its side holster, "I will put you in a full body bind and levitate you back to your cell."

The look Lucius gives her is scathing. "I'd like to see a bitch like you try."

Granger puts her hand on Althea's arm, holding her back. "Phoebe," she says to Rayne, "escort Mr Malfoy back to his cell, and feel free to gag him if he harasses you verbally."

Lucius bares his teeth at her, but Rayne's reaching for him, pulling him out of the interview room. He sweeps out, with one last vicious glare at the window. Draco feels as if his father's ripped his heart out, leaving behind deep, oozing claw marks. 

His knees buckle, and Blaise and Potter are beside him, both of them leading him to one of the armchairs. "Careful," Potter says, and he squats beside Draco. He doesn't say anything for a moment, and then he sighs, reaching out to push Draco's hair behind one ear. "Your father's a shit, you know."

"That much is obvious." Draco's throat feels dry and raw. He swallows and drags in a slow breath. "It's fine. I'm used to it." He's not, and he doesn't think he ever will be. His father still has the power to tear him apart with one harsh word. He thinks back to the photos in the album his mother was going through last night. That small boy with the ruffled white-blond hair and the bright, happy smile, clinging to his father's neck, laughing when his father pressed his face to his. His father had loved him when he was young. And then Draco had grown up and become a disappointment. The son who's rejected his father's ideology, who's refused to provide a proper heir, and Draco can't help but wonder when his father had figured that bit out. Lucius hates him for it, he thinks. He knows his father, knows what that curl of his mouth when he'd spat out _poof_ means. He makes his father ill.

Draco sinks back in the armchair, his head falling against the cushion. "I don't give a fuck about him," he says, but it's a lie. Lucius is his father. He always will be. And Draco will always feel that loss of his father's respect, of his affection. 

"You do." Potter strokes a finger across the back of Draco's hand. It's the most closeness he's shown in public. Blaise looks away from them, his lip caught between his teeth. "It's all right," Potter says. "He's your dad."

There's a knock on the door, and Potter stands as Granger enters, Althea behind her. Althea looks a bit shattered. Draco doesn't blame her. Lucius can do that to a person. 

"All right here?" Granger asks, and Potter nods. "We'll need to find a solicitor--"

"I'll do it," Draco says, not looking over at her. 

"You don't have to--" Potter starts to say, but Draco shakes his head, cutting him off. 

"He's my father," Draco says, a deep weariness filling him. "I'll do it." Blaise's hand settles on his shoulder; Draco reaches up to clasp it. 

Granger nods. "I'll leave it in your hands then." She glances at Blaise, who gives her a solemn nod, then at Potter. "Harry, we have the press conference in an hour or so. Gawain will want us in his office before we all gather upstairs."

Potter looks back at Draco and Blaise, obviously uncertain whether he should leave. 

"Go," Draco says. "Blaise'll make certain I don't throw myself down into the Atrium."

"Don't even joke about that," Potter says, his voice tight and quiet. Draco meets his gaze. There's something there that he doesn't really understand, something warm and angry, except Draco thinks it's angry for him, not at him.

Draco worries his lip between his teeth. "I'll be fine. I promise."

"Harry," Granger says, but the look she gives Draco is kind. "We should go."

Potter doesn't want to. Draco can tell. But he breathes out, his eyes searching Draco's face. Whatever he finds there makes him sigh. "All right." He looks at Blaise. "Whatever he needs today, yeah?"

"Don't worry, guv." Blaise squeezes Draco's shoulder. "He'll be fine. He always is."

And then Potter's gone, on Granger's heels, with another backwards look at Draco, his brow furrowed, and something shrivels deep inside of Draco, making him want to curl up on himself, bury his face against his knees. He doesn't. He can't. He won't.

The room's silent for a long moment, then Althea says, "I'll be back in the incident room if you need me." 

She's almost through the door, when Draco says, "Althea." She looks back at him, her face wary, her hand curled around the edge of the door. He swallows, then says, "You were good in there. With my father. He's not easy. If anyone knows that, it's me."

"He's a twat," Althea says with her usual bluntness, and it makes Draco smile, if only just a bit. She's not wrong, he thinks. She hesitates, then says, "Don't let him get to you. It's what he wants, to get in your head, to make you doubt yourself. He's a shit, but you aren't. Not so much." She bites her bare, pink lip. "You're a good Auror, Malfoy. Whatever I might have said before. Don't let your arsewipe of a dad take that away from you."

She closes the door behind her. 

Draco sits silently before Blaise says, "Well. That was unexpected."

"Yeah." Draco's still looking at the door, his thoughts tumbling one over another. "She's an odd duck."

"Not what i would have called her," Blaise says, "but less likely to get you decked, so…" He squats beside Draco's chair. "What do you need right now? A drink? A Gillyweed spliff? Me to go punch your fucking father in the bollocks? I'd offer you a good shag, but I think the guv might have my jugular for that." He looks thoughtful. "Interestingly enough."

Draco snorts. "Please."

Blaise just shrugs. "I wouldn't be so certain, Draco. I know what I can see, and that wasn't an indifferent man."

"You're mad." Draco's grateful for Blaise. He truly is. He shakes his head and pushes himself up out of the chair. "What I need, my friend, is work. And a trip to the solicitor, I suppose." 

"Millie?" Blaise asks.

Draco shakes his head. "I wouldn't want her to do it. Not for him." He scrubs his hands over his face. "Circe. I loathe law offices."

"I'll go with you." Blaise is on his feet as well, stretching his back. "I won't make you do that on your own."

Fuck, but Draco's grateful for his friends. "Thanks," he says, and Blaise claps him on the back. 

"Come on, old man," he says, and he walks over to the door, opening it. "Let's go show that bastard father of yours we're the better men."

Draco follows him out, glancing back at the empty interview room framed in the grey glass of the window. 

He lets the door slam shut behind him.

***

Emerging from the steps in the back of the hallway, Jake can already hear the rustle and din of reporters and Aurors from the distance. He follows the noise out, but is unprepared for the colourful sight that meets his eyes. There’s a sea of Auror grey robes piped in various colors by seniority, several small knots of black and silver Hit Wizard robes, and a number of unobtrusive British Unspeakables that he knows, all in unremarkable day robes. Kingsley Shacklebolt is on the dais in a bright royal blue robe, with Robards in bright red trimmed in grey to match his force, Croaker in green, and several members of the Wizengamot in their formal black robes. The press and general public are lined up in front with cameras, recording spells, being kept in order by several security officers with yellow armbands.

He sidles up to the secure entrance and shows his credentials. The Auror--a sergeant by the white piping on his robe--barely looks at them, focusing instead on his dress robes. "Mr Durant. Head Auror Robards is waiting for you."

Jake goes up the few stairs and following the directions of Shacklebolt’s chief of staff. Harry and Hermione are already standing behind Robards and Croaker, who are both seated. Jake greets the senior officers, then squeezes in behind Hermione. He still doesn’t know why he’s been requested to be on the dias. None of Potter’s team members are with him. This is Croaker’s idea, he suspects. Saul does like to flaunt Jake whenever he can. Jake sometimes thinks he’s forgotten that Jake still belongs to MACUSA, not his department.

"What did I miss?" Jake asks Hermione, barely moving his lips. They're all there for window dressing, he knows, but this entire affair is being captured on film, so no one should be at anything other than parade rest. That’s been made damn clear. Jake puts his hands behind his back.

Hermione's rose perfume adds a welcome floral note to the otherwise dry air of the lobby. The smile on her face barely moves as she says, "I think Kingsley’ll start soon. And the whole world has turned out." She hesitates. “The Azkaban debacle's becoming a bit of an international crisis.”

“Shit.” Jake glances down at the press pit. He recognises some of the journalists from his time in Luxembourg--they’re working for wizarding news agencies in several countries: Ireland, Germany, Nigeria, Argentina, Japan, India, Oman, Singapore, Indonesia, France, Australia, and Chile. And that's just the ones he recognises. There’s a smattering of local UK news reporters as well. It's not half intimidating, and the pit’s packed. There's a special section where the goblins are standing, and he can see a giant in the back. Jake hasn’t seen the Ministry Atrium this full any time he’s ever been in London.

Harry looks rigid and tense on Hermione’s other side. He's not great with crowds, Jake remembers, a bit of worry going through him, but then he reminds himself it’s none of his affair any longer. Jake's grateful for the physical presence of Hermione between them. If Harry loses his cool, she can handle him. 

"I need to talk to you about Azkaban," Hermione says softly, pretending to fix a lock of hair so she can twist her mouth away from the cameras. "Obviously not here."

Jake doesn't move his face, but he murmurs, "Yes. How long do you think this will this go?"

"Under an hour," Hermione says. "If that. Kingsley doesn't like long engagements in public."

Shacklebolt approaches the podium hung with the insignia of the British Ministry of Magic, and the noise from the crowd settles down. From his position, Jake can see the reflection of a magiprompter scroll on the wooden surface. Shacklebolt removes his wand from his sleeve with surprising agility and casts a Sonorous.

"Witches and Wizards, Magical creatures and all magical beings, thank you for coming today. Our world frequently encounters challenging times, and as we've learned, we are always stronger when we can face difficulties together.” Shacklebolt looks around the Atrium. They’re all silent, Jake notices, listening to the Minister for Magic with rapt attention. What MACUSA’s President Quahog wouldn’t give for that, Jake thinks.

"A little over a month ago,” Shacklebolt says, “as many of you know through the reports printed in the _Daily Prophet_ , we learned of the reappearance of Death Eater Antonin Dolohov. Two weeks later, he was bold enough to surface in Central London. We learned he was at the centre of a larger web, whose threads reached into this Ministry itself.”

There’s a faint murmuring among the crowd, and Jake can see heads bending together. Shacklebolt pauses, gives the whispering a moment to pass, then continues.

"We took action with several raids to contain the threat to the magical world. Thanks to these bold witches and wizards who stand here, we were able to take several of those involved into custody. These officers deserve the highest praise of a grateful nation.”

Applause breaks through the Atrium, lead mostly by the Aurors, Jake notes. He catches a movement in the corner of the Atrium, a familiar dark face moving through the crowd. Blaise, late as usual, and Jake tries not to smile. Malfoy’s behind him, his bright hair a beacon through the crowd. Jake glances over at Harry, who’s already caught sight of Malfoy and is watching him as well, his mouth slightly open, a wistful look on his face. That hurts, Jake thinks. He wishes it didn’t, but he’s not a bloody robot. He doesn’t like that Harry’s replaced him so quickly and so easily; he doesn’t like that he’s becoming more certain that Harry’s feelings for Malfoy surpass anything he’d ever claimed to feel for Jake. 

Jake wants to hate Malfoy for that. Sometimes he tries. It’s easier to hate Harry though. When Jake lets himself. He wishes he could walk away, and if it weren’t for the situation with the Dementors, he would. Fuck Barachiel Dee for making him give a damn about that, he thinks. Otherwise, he’d be back in Brooklyn in his comfortable flat, arguing with Head Auror Graves instead of his damn ex.

"Let me also take this opportunity,” Shacklebolt says. “to thank our Czech, American--” He looks at Jake and Jake flinches as flashbulbs pop in the press pit. “--and other European partners for their assistance with our undertakings. Some of these have already been published, and some cannot be revealed, but several acts of heroism were recorded that led to the capture of dangerous elements among us.”

Shacklebolt pauses. The entire room is spellbound, waiting. He leans forward, his hands gripping the side of the podium. "Now, there has been some concern about a direct security risk posed by the past infiltration of Azkaban prison, as well as the Dementors themselves. I assure you that all of the Dementors are under our control and the prison has been secured by fresh security forces. There is no further need for worry.”

A murmur of relief goes through the crowd. Jake tenses, glances towards Hermione. She looks at him, her teeth worrying her lip, then back at Shacklebolt. Jake turns his attention back to the crowd. Blaise is looking at him, his face impassive. Jake thinks he knows what his grandfather’s planning, or suspects at least. 

"You may have heard,” Shacklebolt says, “that some of the human guards were murdered, or otherwise estranged from their corporeal existence, and I regret to inform you that this is true. We will hold a private memorial service with the families of those involved when the investigation is complete, and we are currently assessing appropriate measures for the just end to these dangerous magical entities.” He looks up at the crowd, his face solemn. 

Jake shivers, realising that Shacklebolt has just suggested, nay, confirmed that the Ministry intends to move forward with extermination of the Dementors. Hermione takes a slow breath in front of him. Blaise looks away, his mouth tight. “Fucking hell,” Jake says, loud enough for Harry to hear. He glances at Jake, and Jake knows Harry agrees. If Parkinson’s read his report, then Harry has as well. And there’s no fucking way Harry’ll let any creature that’s sentient be massacred like that. Whatever the Minister for Magic and his advisors might say.

Shacklebolt clears his throat. "The level of cooperation and engagement of the Magical enforcement services has been unprecedented in a peacetime operation. I would like to commend the Aurors, Hit Wizards, and Unspeakables who have given countless hours to secure our nation and ensure our common safety.”

Shacklebolt's a gifted public speaker, and even though Jake would rather not be trapped up on this dais in a state affair, particularly for one he’s not affiliated with, for fuck’s sake, he's not at all bored by what the Minister for Magic says. His delivery is authoritative, but also thoughtful. 

Still, Jake wishes his brain weren't tabulating all the people he can think of in Luxembourg and the States who could help invoke a human rights case. Perhaps this Bulstrode that Parkinson mentioned could be of immediate assistance. Jake's going to ask Hermione as soon as they aren't trapped here with false, serious expressions on their faces. He has to try something. He’s not going to let them exterminate the Dementors. There has to be another way.

"I know,” Shacklebolt says, “that many of you are worried about the security breaches and the general atmosphere of uncertainty caused by the renewed plot of people known to us as Death Eaters who supported the murderous campaigns of Lord Voldemort."

There’s a collective gasp that ripples through the Atrium. The name’s still not uttered in public often. Not here. Not even in the States. It's one of the things Jake had noticed about Harry right away, that he wasn't afraid of this name. Malfoy’s looking at Harry now, his face shuttered, his mouth tight. 

Shacklebolt pauses. He draws in a slow breath, looking around the crowd. His fingers tense on the lower corners of the podium. "Although we are not concerned about a resurgence in any meaningful way, we have considered the importance of tracking the actions and movements of wizards and witches known to have been associates of Lord Voldemort, particularly those who called themselves his Death Eaters and took the Dark Mark."

Hermione swears under her breath. Her face is impassive, but the rigidity of her posture radiates tension. Harry’s ashen, and when Jake scans him gently, all he can feel is a terrible headache and a wave of nausea followed by a rush of anger. Jake sends a comforting image despite his earlier resolution not to get involved. This is different, he thinks. Harry's shoulders relax a little. Jake’s not certain about all the history here--when Harry’s war was going on, Jake was in his own law enforcement training. They’d heard about it, of course. Studied it even, later on. But it’s not the same as living through it. Whatever’s going on right now, it's bad, Jake thinks. The quick quills and recording spells of the news services are shimmering in the air. It's an extraordinary sight. The murmurs of the crowd behind the reporters are audible.

Jake looks over at Malfoy. His back is rigid, his gaze fixed on Harry, who’s looking back at him, a furrow between his brows. Blaise bends his head to Malfoy, says something. Malfoy shakes his head, but doesn’t turn away from Harry.

"Certain members of the Wizengamot," Shacklebolt leans forward, his towering form bent to the amplifying spell, "have asked me to say that the Wizengamot as a whole will be considering the efficacy of implementing a Death Eater registry in the United Kingdom for known Death Eaters and their families, in tandem with the European Magical Federations list of known war criminals."

“Goddamn,” Jake says, but his voice is lost in the hubbub. Hermione looks at him, and he shakes his head. He’s been through this before. The States have tried this, in their own way, both Muggle and wizarding. It’s a shit move; it never works. 

The Aurors around Malfoy begin to turn towards him, looking his way, and Malfoy’s chin lifts. His mouth’s a thin, tight line; his cheeks flush, but he meets their stares evenly. Good for him, Jake thinks.

Harry’s tight and tense on Hermione’s other side; the insignia of the Ministry of Magic in front of Shacklebolt starts to darken around the edges, tiny tendrils of grey smoke curling up from it. 

“Shit,” Jake says and he jostles Hermione’s arm, nodding to the podium. “Get him before he blows up the whole damned dais.”

Hermione jabs Harry with her elbow. “Harry James,” she snaps. “Pull yourself together.”

Harry nods and tries to take a deep breath, but Jake can see it catching in the back of his throat. He reaches behind Hermione, his fingers brushing Harry’s shoulder. He sends another wave of calming sea breezes into Harry’s mind. Gentle. Soft. He can feel Harry’s anger start to fade. The insignia stops smoking.

Jake lets his hand drop away. Harry doesn’t look at him. He keeps watching Malfoy. Jesus, Jake thinks, his own irritation rising.

Shacklebolt raises his voice. "Dolohov was not captured in the raids, but we have concrete evidence that he has left Britain. We will continue to track his movements by intelligence from allied magical nations, and we will make this nation a less favorable place for him to return to for support. I would ask you all to remain vigilant. The threat level we are facing has diminished, but we all need to participate in keeping Magical Britain safe for all." 

At that, Malfoy turns on his heel and walks off, pushing his way through the crowd. The Aurors part for him, silently. Blaise glances back at the dais, at Jake first, then Harry, before he shakes his head and strides after Malfoy. Jake doesn’t blame him. He knows this rhetoric. He’s used it before himself. 

It terrifies the shit out of him.

Shacklebolt makes a sweeping gesture, taking in the Aurors and Hit Wizards and Unspeakables surrounding him, on the dias and on the floor. "These are your protectors, and they are counting on your help. Please do not hesitate to contact us by owl or Floo. Remember, forewarned is forearmed. It's better to call in a false alarm than it is to endanger us all." He steps back. "And with that, thank you, and good afternoon."

The uproar is nearly deafening as Shacklebolt turns and walks down the cordon, disappearing into the Interior of the Ministry. The news reporters wait, but when the questions are not forthcoming, they switch into broadcast mode, the din of numerous languages sounding over video and wireless.

It seems to take forever until Croaker and Robards and the others file off of the stage. Jake is relieved when it's their turn. Harry's face is still grey, although his jaw is set, and Hermione's expression is equally grim. Jake follows the cloud of Hermione's curls and wonders what's just happened and whether or not they will be able to change anything now that the political tide is turning.

He thinks he's just seen history enacted. As he steps off the dais, following Hermione through the cordon, he feels vaguely sick.

This won’t go well for Britain, he thinks. 

Circe help them all.

***

“You can’t bloody do this!” Harry doesn’t give a fuck that he’s shouting at the sodding Minister for Magic. “Are you mad? Do you know what this sort of thing does? How does it make us any better than them?”

“Harry,” Kingsley says. A file jacket on his desk marked _confidential_ begins smouldering; Kingsley slaps another file against it just as the corner bursts into flames, smothering it before the whole desk catches fire.

“A Death Eater Registry?” Harry paces across the plush, dark blue carpet of the Minister’s office. “They had a fucking Muggleborn Registry, Kingsley. What the fuck?” His voice rises, and Gawain winces from his seat in front of Kingsley’s desk as another file starts to smoke. He snatches it and fans it quickly.

Kingsley half-rises from his chair. “Sit the fuck down, Inspector Potter.” Gawain drops the file jacket back on his desk. "And stop setting my paperwork on fire."

Harry turns on his heel. “No.” He won’t. He’s learnt from his Slytherins. Sitting down means you’re giving up your power. Unless you’re forcing your opponent into a more humiliating position. 

Kingsley drops back into his seat with an annoyed sigh. “Bloody youth,” he mutters.

Gawain rubs the bridge of his nose. “Harry, no one’s saying we’re going to do this.”

“Really?” Harry leans against the back of the empty chair, his fists pressed into the leather. “Because I’m pretty fucking certain that the Minister of Magic just stood up in front of God and all the sodding press and said we were seriously thinking about it, which everyone knows means it’s nearly a done deal in politics.” He’s shaking, his pulse pounding wildly in his throat. He’d seen the look on Malfoy’s face; he knows what he’s thinking. Malfoy’ll be the first thrown on the list. The Aurors will make fucking sure of that. And then there’ll be his mother to think about. What’ll that do to Narcissa? She’s already turned over her husband. How dare the fucking Ministry punish them for trying to make things better at their own expense?

Kingsley and Gawain exchange a long look. “It’s Ernest Hawkworth and Griselda Marchbanks spearheading the charge, Harry,” Kingsley says after a moment. “I don’t agree with them, and I’ve expressed this view, but they’ve the support to bring it to a vote. It’s not going to be overnight. Even if it passed, it’d take time to implement it--”

“But it will have bloody passed,” Harry says, his voice sharp. He runs a hand through his hair. “I want it stopped.”

“That’s not how Government works, lad,” Gawain says. “I wish it did. If Hawkworth and Marchbanks have the support for a vote, there’s nothing even Kingsley can do.”

Harry gives Kingsley a disgruntled glare. “Except confirm it in a bloody speech.”

“It was going to be in the _Prophet_ tomorrow anyway.” Kingsley leans back in his chair. He looks tired and so much older than he’d been when he took office. “I had to say something. I didn’t elaborate.”

Harry looks away. This feels wrong, in so many ways. “I want to speak against it when it comes to the floor.”

“I can make that happen.” Kingsley watches him. “An impassioned speech by the Saviour of the Wizarding World might sway some minds.”

“Jesus.” Harry walks over to the windows that look out on the Atrium. They’re a floor up from Gawain’s office; it’s nearly the same view. Some of the press are still lingering, hoping to catch Ministry workers on their way out of the office tonight. “I really hate that title, you know.”

Kingsley and Gawain are silent behind him. Harry half-turns, looking back at them. 

“What?” he asks.

Gawain leans forward in his chair, his elbows on his knees. “Malfoy’s Marked. This is why you’re upset.”

“I’d be angry even if Malfoy weren’t on my team,” Harry snaps. “Because I’m not a giant sodding arsehole, Gawain.” He walks back over to the desk, sits down in the empty chair. “But yes, I’m particularly narked off because one of my best Aurors is going to be put down on a Death Eater Registry because of a stupid mistake he made as a teenager. Would you want to be judged by what you did when you were sixteen?”

“He has a point,” Gawain says, and Kingsley smiles faintly. 

Kingsley looks at Harry. “I can do what I can to derail this, Harry, but I can’t promise you what you want. We have a democracy--”

Harry snorts.

“We have a democracy,” Kingsley says again. “And it has to run its course. For now, I need you and your team to focus on finding Antonin Dolohov and bringing him down. So break those bloody Aurors you have in holding. Do I make myself clear?”

“Perfectly,” Harry says, his voice tight. "Sir."

Gawain touches his arm. “It’ll be all right, lad. You’ll see.”

Harry’s not so sodding sure of that. These are old men with their old ways of doing things. Harry doesn’t bloody well trust any of them. He stands up. “Thanks for your time.”

He walks out of the office, not bothering to look back.

The door slams shut behind him.

***

Draco's sitting alone at a table in a Camden pub, nursing a glass of Glenfiddich. He's never entirely certain he likes Muggle whisky; he misses the fiery burn of Ogden's a bit too much.

Blaise buggered off ten minutes ago, Pansy a half-hour before. Draco's still lingering, not wanting to go home yet. He sets his glass on the sticky tabletop. The Golden Lion's quiet for Camden, even on a Tuesday night--there's a crowd around the bar and a game of darts going on in the back, but there's no band playing, only an ancient jukebox in the corner that occasionally spits out a rollicking tune over the murmur of conversation. Draco used to come here more often, years back when he'd had a room in Pansy's flat off St Pancras Way with a view of the canal. Sometimes he misses Camden and its dirty streets and the throbbing bass of its music scene. It'd been a brilliant place in which to break from his parents, he thinks, surrounded by the bright Muggle lights and vibrant colours that fill the High Street when dusk starts to stretch across the locks.

He runs a thumb over the rim of his glass. It's his third of the evening, and he's only just beginning to feel its effect. He's not bladdered, but the tightness in his shoulders is starting to fade. 

Circe, but it's been a shit day.

They'd talked about it, of course, the three of them. About his father. About a proper solicitor. A barrister, really. Someone who can argue in front of the Wizengamot. About the possibility of the Registry. About what it might mean. For Draco, mostly. It's not like Pansy and Blaise would be forced to. They'd never taken the Mark. None of their family had. Just Draco. And his father, of course.

He takes another sip of his whisky. He hasn't seen Potter since the press conference. Merlin only knows what he'd been doing all afternoon. Draco hadn't really cared, to be honest. He'd spent the rest of the day in Pansy's lab, hiding out with her whilst Blaise had roamed the halls of the Ministry, trying to find out what he could. 

It hadn't been much. There's nothing in place, yet, that's for certain, and the Wizengamot has to approve the measure with a majority vote, although Hawkworth and Marchbanks are pushing it to the floor as soon as they can. It might still fail. Someone might stop it. Perhaps.

That's bloody cold comfort, Draco thinks. 

He drains his glass and sets it down with a thump. Part of him wants to keep drinking, to drown himself in whisky until he doesn't have to think, until he can sleep. That'd be stupid of him, he knows that. Blaise had made him promise he wouldn't, when he'd pushed his chair back and stood up. Draco probably should have gone with him, but he doesn't want to sit in his flat with his mother and try to keep his worry and fear from her. 

Fuck. He rubs his fingers across his forehead. He'd felt on bloody display at the press conference, when the Aurors around him had turned to look at him. It's not as if he can hide. They all know. It's a matter of public sodding record, thanks to the War hearings, and even if it hadn't been, fucking Althea made sure they all knew. She'd certainly reminded them of it often enough. 

Draco'd like to hate Althea like he used to, but he doesn't have it in him any more. It's not that he likes her. He probably never will. But she's just as fucked up in her own way as he is, and he can't fault her for that. He also has a grudging respect for her after the interrogation of his father. He wonders if he should order another whisky. All he's had to eat are a few packets of crisps, purchased from the bar. Another glass might tip him over the edge from self-pitying maudlinity to full-blown drunken pathos.

He pushes himself up from the table and takes a step. That's always the test, isn't it? The world doesn't tip and sway around him, thank Merlin, so he makes his way through the pub and outside where it's warm and the night sky's still tinged with light. The pub crowd spills over onto the pavement, groups sitting at the tables along the wall and standing in small clumps, pints in hand. Draco wonders what it would be like to live like them, to not know what it feels like to have magic pulsing through you, to never feel that spark tingle across your skin. Sometimes he envies Muggles. Even though his mother would be horrified, Draco can't help but wish at times that he'd been born into a different family, that he'd lived a different life, without the expectations that came from being a wizard of Malfoy lineage. 

Draco's never told anyone about that wish. They'd think him mad.

Royal College Street isn't the most charming of Camden avenues. Draco walks past the petrol station and the row of boring brick townhouses, then up St Pancras until he crosses the canal. He turns right on the Regent's Canal Towpath without thinking, letting his feet lead him down, his hands in his pockets, his head bent. He doesn't know where he's going. He just wants to walk. 

Except, perhaps he does. Perhaps he's known even before he turned right instead of the left that would take him back to Regent's Park and home. 

The night's warm and gorgeous, and Draco's pace slowly picks up until a quarter-hour later he's running down the towpath, his head clearing with each step he takes, his lightly booted feet still heavy as they slap against the pavement. It's harder to run without trainers, and he hasn't done this since he was in training, and Dawlish and Bertie had made them run booted every day to build their stamina, but he needs to feel the burn in his legs, the sharp press in his lungs with each breath he takes. He runs faster, crossing the canal at York Way, letting each step he takes bring him closer to Islington. 

To Potter. 

Draco pulls his shirt out of his waistband as he runs, letting the ends hang free, rolling up the sleeves, pushing them up over his elbows. Sweat rolls across his skin, pools in the small of his back. He's slower in the boots, and he's grateful for the thick socks and cushioning charms in them, even if they're a bit too warm. He pulls a hair tie from his pocket--it's one he'd stolen from Pansy earlier in the day--and he twists his hair up into a knot at the top of his head.

It doesn’t matter that he gets odd looks as he jogs past the couples and families out for an evening stroll along the canal. All he cares is that he wants to see Potter. Needs to see him. He doesn't even care that he's still angry with the bastard; he wants Potter to hold him, to still the pounding in his heart, the anxiety that's building up, making his whole body feel as if it's shuddering with fear and tension. 

He's winded when he runs up the steps to Number Twelve Grimmauld Place, a stitch in his side bending him over, making him gasp as he pounds the knocker against the door. His feet hurt, his whole body aches, but he feels more alive than he had forty minutes ago, walking out of the Golden Lion.

The door opens, and Potter's there. 

"Hi," Draco says, and Potter pulls the door wider, letting Draco step in. He winces as his boot shifts on his foot. 

"Did you run over?" Potter asks, a disbelieving look on his face. 

"May have." Draco limps into the library. Now that he's here, he feels a bit of a fool. He drops down on the sofa and works his boots off, then his socks, frowning down at the blister that's rising on the pinkened back of his heel. 

"Jesus, Malfoy." Potter sits beside him, takes his foot in his hand. "Are you mad?"

Draco doesn't really know how to answer that. He's starting think he just might be. "I didn't intend to," he says. "I just…" He sighs. "Sometimes I have to run."

Potter's wand is out, and he's casting healing charms on Draco's foot. He reaches for the other one, and Draco leans back against the arm of the sofa. He's not certain why he feels safe here, but he does. Even when he's frustrated with Potter. 

"Do you want to talk?" Potter asks, but he doesn't look at him. 

"I don't know." Draco rests his head against the back of the sofa. Potter's hands are soft against his ankles. Strong. "You weren't around this afternoon."

Potter doesn't say anything for a long moment. "I spent a large portion of it shouting at Kingsley and Gawain," he says finally. "Separately and together."

Draco watches him in the soft lamplight. Potter looks exhausted. He's in joggers and a Hobgoblins concert t-shirt from 1979 that can only be described kindly as vintage with holes in the hem and the neck stretched out, his hair wild and messy over smudged glasses, and yet he still looks brilliant to Draco. Draco wonders what that says about him. "The Registry," he says, and Potter nods.

"I reminded Kingsley how fucked up the Muggleborn Registry was under Voldemort," Potter says quietly. "He doesn't disagree, but he doesn't think the Wizengamot will say no to it."

"Merlin." Draco pulls his feet from Potter's lap, tucks his knees up against his chest. His toes still ache, his heel feels taut and unhappy, but neither are as painful as they were. Honestly, he's an idiot, he thinks. Only a fool like him would run the way he had in dragonhide boots. 

Potter looks at him. "We're going to do everything we can to fight it," he says. "Hermione and I agree--"

"You won't be able to," Draco says. His heart aches. It's been such a long day. He doesn't know what to do any longer. He wishes he could escape, could disappear into the anonymity of Muggle Britain. Maybe he should. It's just that he'll miss people. Blaise and Pansy. Millie and Hannah and Greg and Theo, even. 

And Potter. 

Draco doesn't know what he'd do if he had to walk away from Potter.

"Malfoy," Potter says, a soft tone in his voice, and Draco shakes his head. 

"Don't." Draco wraps his arms around his knees. "Please don't be kind. I can't bear--" His voice cracks, and then Potter's reaching for him, pulling him across the sofa, up against him. 

"I'm sorry," Potter says, and he holds Draco close, lets Draco press his face against Potter's shoulder. Draco breathes Potter in, that spicy-sweetness of him, the musky undertones, the strangely clean crisp scent of his ancient cotton t-shirt. "They can't do this."

But they can, and Draco knows it. He's seen it happen before, so has Potter. One side or the other, it doesn't really matter, he thinks. Not when people are afraid of each other. 

"They'll say it's for the greater good," Draco says quietly. "And they won't be wrong, you know. Perhaps they'll keep someone like my father at bay. It's just the rest of us, the people like me who've changed, who don't want to be part of that world any longer…" He looks away. "We're the ones who'll be fucked."

Potter's silent. He rubs his hand along Draco's back. It feels good. Comforting. Possessive in a way that makes Draco ache. "I’ve been thinking. I should be on it too, you know." 

"Don't be ridiculous." Draco leans into Potter's solid chest, his hand splayed over Potter's shirt, pale against the dark blue. "You're not Marked."

"I was a bloody Horcrux," Potter says, his voice low. "I'd say that's even more dangerous than a stupid snake-and-skull tattoo."

Draco's gaze drifts to Potter's scar. "You didn't take that on willingly. Not like the rest of us."

Potter shrugs, but his shoulders are tense now. "I lived with Voldemort in my head for almost eighteen years," he says. "What if there's still part of him there?" 

"There's not." But Draco's not so sure. He wants to be, but he'd spent enough time around the Dark Lord to know better than to second-guess the bastard. If anyone could live on in Potter, it'd be that sodding megalomaniac.

Potter doesn't look convinced. He smoothes a stray lock of hair back from Draco's forehead, tucking the end back beneath Draco's topknot. His knuckles brush Draco's cheek. "I promise you that I'll protect you."

Draco believes he'll try. Whether or not Potter can remains to be seen. Still, he can't stop himself from leaning up, letting his lips press lightly against Potter's. "Thank you."

Potter's breath catches, then his hand, wide and strong, slides over Draco's jaw, cupping the back of Draco's head. "Are you still angry with me?" he asks softly. 

"A bit," Draco admits. "You were a shit about Althea." He hesitates. "But she's a decent enough Auror."

"Yeah." Potter's thumb strokes small spirals along the curve of Draco's throat. "But you're better."

"Flatterer," Draco says, but he gives Potter a small smile. His hand shifts against Potter's chest; he can feel the hard nub of Potter's nipple beneath his palm. He teases it a bit cruelly with the edge of his thumbnail, hearing Potter's swift intake of breath.

Potter's watching him again, his eyes half-hidden behind his glasses. He licks his lip. "Do you want to stay?"

"Maybe." Draco looks up at him. Circe, but he does, even if he can't let Potter know how badly. He lets his hand slip down to the hem of Potter's t-shirt, feeling the shift of Potter's muscles as he draws in a slow breath. His fingers pluck at the faded cotton. "Do you want me to?"

Potter's mouth quirks up at the corner. "I asked you first."

Draco lets his hand slide under Potter's shirt, across the warm, firm skin of Potter's belly. "I definitely want to fuck you," he admits. His thumb pushes against the waistband of Potter's joggers. "My prick in your arse, shagging you rotten." The thought of Potter spread beneath him sends a furl of want blossoming through Draco. Circe, he has no idea how Potter can do this to him, how the press of Potter's skin against his can calm him down, ease his anxieties into a bloody bonfire of desire. Potter's dangerous, and Draco can't resist that about him. "Would that be something you'd be interested in, guv?"

"Yes." The word is almost a sigh. Potter closes his eyes, dropping his hand to Draco's shoulders, and Draco leans in, kisses him fiercely. A sharp, almost angry possessiveness wells up in Draco, and he bites at Potter's lips until they open beneath his, sucking at Potter's tongue then plundering Potter's mouth with his own before he pulls back, leaving Potter breathless, his eyes fluttering open. 

"Malfoy," Potter says, a pleading little gasp of his name that makes Draco want to shove him to the cushions, jerking those joggers down just enough to take Potter's prick in his mouth until he spills his spunk down Draco's throat.

Fuck, but Draco doesn't think he could last through that, and he wants this slower, wants to touch Potter, to feel Potter swell against him, to watch his cock press into Potter, to see Potter writhe beneath him as Draco takes him to the edge of everything they both desire.

Potter's looking at him, his mouth wet and soft and pinkened from Draco's kiss, his hair falling over his forehead, thick and dark and messy and wavy against his golden skin. He's one of the most beautiful men Draco's ever seen, square-jawed, his nose long and aquiline, lips made to be kissed. "What?" Potter asks, his voice husky with want.

Draco climbs over Potter's lap, his knees bracketing Potter's thighs, his trousers already starting to tent. He slides Potter's glasses off, bending to set them to the side on a small table stacked with old copies of the _Prophet_ and _Seeker Weekly_ , a still steaming glass of firewhisky sitting on top of them all. Potter's eyes are green and bright, his pupils wide. Draco rucks up Potter's t-shirt, his fingers trailing across Potter's muscled stomach. Draco wishes he looked like this, burly and hard and strong. He's long and lean and coltish; sometimes he's not certain he'll ever grow out of his boyish phase. Not like Potter has, at least. 

"Would you let me have you on this sofa?" Draco trails a thumbnail down the faint trail of dark hair from Potter's navel to the waistband of his joggers. 

"Yes." Potter's almost hypnotised, muscles quivering beneath Draco's touch. "You know I would."

When Draco kisses Potter again, Potter's fingers grip his hips, digging in, holding Draco in place on his lap. He shifts beneath Draco, and the thickening length of his prick presses against Draco's cock, hot and fat already. "Fuck," Draco murmurs against Potter's lips. It's been too long since they did this, even though it's only been a few days. Draco's skin is on fire with Potter, his hunger visceral, deep and low in his belly.

Draco pulls back, and Potter looks up at him, his head pressed into the buttery leather back of the sofa. He reaches up, brushes his fingertips over Draco's pulled-back hair. "I like you like this," Potter says. "You should wear it up more often." 

"I'm not so certain I should take hair advice from a man who thinks running a comb through his would be a national tragedy," Draco says, his voice light, but his entire body's tingling at the look in Potter's eyes. 

Potter's mouth twitches. "Hey, I just think it's bloody hot on you." 

Draco feels his face warm at the compliment. He hides it by leaning in to kiss Potter again, their bodies pressing together. Potter's hands slip up beneath the untucked edge of Draco's shirt, sliding over the bony ridges of Draco's spine. Draco shudders at the touch, his breath a soft gasp against Potter's mouth. He reaches up with one hand and pulls the hair tie free, letting his hair fall down, swinging forward, tumbling against his cheeks and Potter's. 

"I like this too," Draco says against Potter's lips, and Potter groans, leaning up into another eager kiss. Their bodies shift and move together, and Draco spreads his knees wider against the leather cushions, letting his swollen prick rut up against Potter's until they're both shaking. 

Draco pulls back, his lips tingling from Potter's bites, and slides back over Potter's thighs to standing. He needs to keep himself in control if he's going to manage anything tonight. The whisky adds a warm buzz to his nerves, but he's grateful for the run that’s sobered his thoughts.

Potter looks up at him, his face open. He's waiting for Draco to call the shots, Draco realises, and that knowledge is bloody damned heady. Draco's heart swells, warm and full of feelings he's not willing to look closely at. Not now. Not here. 

"Let's go up to your bedroom." Draco trails a hand over Potter's cheek, and Potter chases it with his mouth before pushing himself up off the sofa and following Draco out of the library and to the staircase. 

Draco takes the stairs at a quick clip, feeling almost as if the steps themselves are pushing him forward, each tread shuddering beneath his bare feet as if with the same quiet excitement roiling through Draco's body. Potter's at his heels, and, on the landing, he catches Draco by the waist, pulling him into another slow kiss, both of them staggering forward until Draco's back hits the wall, his arms wrapped around Potter's neck, fingers tangled in Potter's thick hair.

"I could kiss you forever," Potter says, and his breath huffs warmly over the corner of Draco's mouth, sending a shiver through Draco's whole body, making his prick jump against Potter's. "It's never been like that for me." 

Draco knows what he means. Sex has always been about getting off, about finding his prick buried in someone else, or vice versa, until his body's bucking and shuddering. With Potter it's different. Slower. The build up of a touch, a kiss, a breath ghosting across heated skin, until the entirety of Draco's aching, desperate for one more brush of Potter's lips, one more stroke of his fingers across trembling limbs. 

He answers Potter with another long kiss, letting his body melt against Potter's, only the wall and Potter's hands holding him upright as his tongue presses against Potter's. 

Potter pulls back, looking at Draco with soft, unfocussed eyes. "Do you really want to fuck me?" he asks, and Draco nods. 

"More than anything." The words are raw against Draco's throat. 

Potter takes Draco's hands and steps backwards into his darkened bedroom, tugging Draco with him. "Give me a moment?" he asks, a small, almost nervous smile curving his lips. 

Draco nods, and Potter disappears into the en suite, the door closing behind him. Slowly Draco draws his clothes off, half-folding them, then settling them in a more or less orderly pile on the low chest beneath the window. He opens the curtains, just enough to chase the shadows away with the faint moonlight that spills in. The window's cracked, and Draco catches the soft scent of the lavender blooming in the back garden. 

He's hard, his prick swollen and demanding, hanging heavy between his legs. Draco gives a quick tug, more of a casual stroke really to see how ready he is, and his head swims with the pleasure of his foreskin sliding up over the dampening head of his cock. Fuck, but just being near Potter is a bloody aphrodisiac. It's all he can do not to throw himself across Potter's bed and jerk himself madly. He drops his hand, reminding himself that he wants to come in Potter's arse, not across his sheets.

Draco finds the lube in Potter's bedside table and stops when a dried scrap of wildflower tumbles out with it from the drawer, one of the ones caught in Potter's hair from Midsummer Eve. Draco hadn't even realised Potter had saved one. He puts it back, laying it gently into the deep recesses of the drawer, uncertain as to what he should think. Better not to, really. He clambers onto the bed, leaving the coverlet made, then sits cross-legged, his back against the pillows, and waits. 

The en suite door opens, a moment later, and Potter steps out, starkers. He's sodding gorgeous, Draco thinks, all lean, powerful muscles and broad shoulders, his chest lightly fuzzed, dark hair against his golden skin, another sleek trail of hair down his firm abdomen, his prick hard and already leaking. Draco takes a shallow breath, his own cock fattening further at the sight of Potter ready for him. Potter moves over to the bed, but doesn't join Draco on it yet. "How do you want me?" he asks.

Draco ponders a few acrobatic choices, none of which seem to fit his mood tonight. He'll have time later for the upside down, floor-bracing options. Tonight he just wants Potter on him, arse hot and tight around his prick. He draws in a breath and holds his hand out to Potter. "Simple. Here, on my lap."

The mattress shifts beneath Potter's weight, and then he's there, solid and strong as Draco shifts to his knee, lube beside his right hand. The bed creaks; Potter fits his body over Draco, his arse on Draco's thighs. "Like this?" Potter asks. Their pricks brush together, ruddy heads sliding against each other. Draco can barely breathe. He nods. 

Potter's so bloody close. Draco hadn't realised how intensely private this would feel, their bodies only inches apart, Potter's hands on his shoulders for balance.

"Do I need to help you stretch"? Draco asks, looking down at Potter's flat, muscled belly. Merlin, but he's going to be buried deep within that gorgeous body. His stomach flips; he's impossibly hard.

Potter shakes his head, his fringe falling over his forehead. "No. I took care of it."

Draco's a bit disappointed. There's part of him that wanted his fingers inside Potter's arse, wanted to feel him slick and hot and ready for him. 

It must cross his face because Potter catches Draco's mouth with his, then murmurs, "But if you want to check...." He nips at Draco's jaw. "I wouldn't mind."

Draco's fingers slide over Potter's hip, over to Potter's crease. "Can I?"

Potter pulls back and nods, widening the spread of his knees, arching his hips forward and pushing his arse back so Draco can slip a finger over the soft puckers of his hole. The skin there is slick with lube, and Draco easily works a fingertip into Potter, breathing out shakily at the way Potter tightens himself around Draco's knuckle. "Merlin," Draco whispers. "You're so fucking wet, aren't you?"

"Ample preparation," Potter says. His teeth nip Draco's earlobe. "You could shove your prick in me right now, if you wanted."

"Don't tempt me." Draco wants to, so badly, but he likes this too, feeling Potter against him, his finger slipping all the way into Potter's slick arsehole. Potter turns his head, their mouths meeting again.

The kiss is slow and careful, and Potter groans when Draco twists another finger into him. "Oh," he whispers against Draco's lips. "I really need you to fuck me." He rolls his hips back, gasping as Draco's fingers slip deeper into him. "Christ, I think I could come from this."

"Not yet, you won't." Draco presses his face against the curve of Potter's throat. "I want that to happen when my cock's bollocks deep in you."

Potter writhes against the movement of Draco's hand. "You'd better hurry then." His arse tenses, tightens around Draco's fingers. "Fuck."

Draco pulls his fingers free with a wet pop. He reaches for the phial of lube, somehow managing to get it open. He pours a handful over his palm, then Potter takes the phial from him, capping it and tossing it aside. Draco's no idea where it lands. He doesn't give a fuck at the moment. Potter bites his lip, leaning back enough for Draco to work his hand between the two of them, watching as Draco lubes up his stiff prick.

"Jesus," Potter says, and his eyes don't leave Draco's fist and the way it twists over Draco's cock, the way Draco rubs his palm over the sensitive head, milking slick, clear drops from it. Potter drags a finger over Draco's slit as Draco fists his prick, pressing his fingertip into the wet hole. Draco hisses and bites his lip, and when Potter pulls his damp finger back, slides it into his mouth and sucks at it, his gaze drifting up to Draco's face, Draco's not certain he won't come right then.

"You twat," he chokes out, and Potter laughs, leaning in to kiss him. 

"I want to ride your cock," Potter says against Draco's lips. "Fuck, but I want to make you come inside of me, Malfoy. I need you to." He drags his mouth along Draco's jaw. "Please let me," he whispers into Draco's ear, and Draco's entire body shudders. 

"You're going to kill me," Draco says quietly, but he holds his prick steady as Potter lowers himself down on it, his arse tight and warm. Draco's eyes flutter closed for the briefest of moments at the sensation. Potter's hands grip Draco's shoulders tightly; his knees are on either side of Draco's chest, and when Draco opens his eyes again, he sees Potter biting his lip. "Careful," Draco says. His hands are splayed across Potter's lower back, guiding Potter down once Draco's prick is well lodged inside him.

It's a surprisingly intimate position when Potter is seated on Draco's lap, his body open to Draco's cock. Draco reaches up, catching Potter's mouth with his. "Merlin, you're amazing."

Potter laughs, his body tensing around Draco's prick, and Draco lets his head fall back, groaning in delight. Potter does it again and again, until Draco is half-mad with the pleasure of it.

"I'm going to last about a minute if you keep this up," Draco chokes out.

"That's the idea." Potter nuzzles Draco's jaw. "Isn't it?"

Potter's getting saucy, drunk on the thrill of Draco's prick splitting him in two--Draco knows the feeling, oh so bloody well-- and Draco decides it's time to rein the bastard in a bit. Arms still wrapped around Potter's back, Draco pulls him closer and begins to rock his hips up. Potter gasps, sinking further into Draco's lap in between each careful thrust. 

"Shit," Potter says, and he leans back, his chest rising with each ragged breath he takes. 

Potter moves with Draco, and they find a rhythm, slow, brutal, effective. Draco's working his arm and thigh and arse muscles, holding Potter up, pressing into him with deep, shuddering thrusts, and his lower back is tight with the energy of it. Potter positively drapes himself over Draco's lap, his hands tangled in Draco's hair, letting Draco press his prick up and following with the rolling drop of his hips against Draco's thighs, his stretched hole sliding slickly on Draco's cock.

Draco looks down to where their bodies are joined, then to where Potter's achingly wet prick is pressed between them, sliding hard and sticky across Draco's skin. "Is this good?"

"So good." Potter's in another state now, loose and limber, sex-drunk and pliant. His head falls backward, his throat a long, golden line, and Draco drags his mouth down it, running his fingernails up across the length of Potter's spine. Potter shivers and his hand slides to the nape of Draco's neck, fingers digging into to Draco's skin. "You know, I _really_ love being fucked by you."

Merlin. Draco could go off like a Erumpent Horn at any moment. His bollocks are so tight against his prick, and Potter is bouncing loosely in his lap, the moonlight shining on his sweaty, golden skin, over the taut lines and curves of Potter's muscles, catching in the waves and shadows of his dark hair, and it's possible everything Draco's ever wanted.

Potter rocks back and forth slightly, finding a deeper angle. "Oh." Potter's breath catches; he curls towards Draco. "Oh, that's good. There. Yes. Malfoy, please--" He tightens his arse around Draco's prick. "Fuck me. Jesus. Just fuck me with that brilliant cock of yours, _please._." Potter's voice rises into a breathy groan. "I need--oh fuck, yes--more, you arsehole. Give me more. Jesus, your prick." His fingers dig into Draco's skin, his arse slams down harder, faster, his cock slapping against Draco's belly. "Fuck, Malfoy, you're splitting me in two; you're so fucking good at this--"

Draco can't bear it. He kisses Potter, desperate to shut him up before Draco comes just from hearing him beg Draco to fuck him harder. They have their arms around each other now, bodies slick with sweat, and the musky, heady smell of sex is rising in the room. The air's cooler around them. Draco suspects the house has changed the temperature, and there's definitely a golden light that he doesn't recall from Potter's light fixtures.

Or maybe he's just mad for this, for Potter. That's an option as well.

He pulls Potter in closer, pushing into him, and on a slick, deep slide into Potter, Draco loses control. He comes so hard he can barely move, his body clenching violently. He cries out, face pressed against Potter's shoulder, his arms around Potter, his body tight, hips jerking out of his control. He shoots spunk into Potter's arse in long, convulsing pulses, then feels it seeping out around his prick. 

Draco shakes with the force of it, his fingers digging into Potter’s flesh. Nothing has ever felt like this before; he’s never wanted anyone the way he wants Potter. He makes a soft noise as his body falls against Potter’s, his breath nearly ripped from his lungs in heaving gasps.

"Oh. Oh, God. Malfoy." Potter's kissing him, his hips rocking down faster against Draco's cock, their bodies squelching with each slapping thrust. "Fuck, the way you feel in me--" He falls backwards, pulling Draco on top of him. "Goddamn you, make me come, you bastard, please--" He rolls his hips up, and Draco's softening prick slips out of Potter's arse in a slick slide.

Draco drags his fingers over Potter's sticky crease, feeling Potter's loose hole jump at the touch. Potter arches up with a moan, and Draco pulls his slick hand away, curling it around Potter's swollen prick. He smears his spunk down Potter's shaft, pulling Potter's foreskin up and back, quickly, ruthlessly, his hand working between them. "Come on now," Draco manages to get out. "You can let go." He loves seeing Potter like this, coming apart at his touch, and when Potter writhes beneath him, Draco almost thinks he can come again at the sight. 

"Fuck," Potter says, and he digs his heels into the pillows, pushing up into Draco's touch. "Fuck, I need your fingers in me--"

Draco shifts, rolls to Potter's side, and he pushes two fingers into Potter's still slick hole, matching their thrusts to the rhythm of his hand on Potter's prick. He leans in and sucks the head of Potter's cock into his mouth, his tongue tasting his own spunk across Potter's slick. Potter arches his head back, shoulders pressed into the mattress, arsehole tight around Draco's fingers. His body trembles as he cries out; then his come fills Draco's mouth, spilling out over his lips with each jerk of his hips. Draco swallows him down, his lips working eagerly across Potter's prick until Potter's hand hits his shoulder gently.

"Too much," Potter gasps out, another shudder going through him, and Draco pulls back, letting Potter's gorgeous prick slip out from his mouth. 

"All right?" Draco asks, and he can't help but feel chuffed when Potter waves his hand weakly, his shoulders and chest still shaking. 

Potter lies there for a moment, a hand over his face, his prick softening against his thigh. Draco sits up, cross-legged on the bed, his own limbs loose and sated, watching Potter recover. He looks amazing, Draco thinks, spread out like this. Fuck, but he loves the sensation of being buried within Harry Potter, of having him come apart on his cock. He doesn't think he can ever walk away from this feeling. 

Draco rubs a hand lightly up Potter's calf. "Really, are you okay?" He's a bit concerned. Potter hasn't moved yet. 

"Yeah," Potter says, his voice muffled by his palm. He drops his hand, and the corners of his eyes are a bit wet. "Fuck, that was a bloody good orgasm."

"You think?" Draco lets his hand drift up along the outside of Potter's thigh, his fingers gentle against Potter's skin. 

Potter draws in a slow, ragged breath. "Yeah." He looks over at Draco. His face is soft, almost vulnerable. "You're brilliant, you know."

Draco warms at the praise. He stretches out alongside Potter, his head resting against Potter's shoulder. "I have inspiration." His fingertips brush Potter's jaw, turning Potter's head towards his. "Thank you," he says simply, and he lets his mouth brush Potter's, featherlight. 

"Malfoy," Potter says, and he rolls towards Draco, his legs tangling with Draco's. He kisses Draco, and the press of their mouths together holds a world of promises that Draco can't let himself hope for. Potter pulls back, looking at him. "Stay tonight." 

"I shouldn't." Draco smoothes Potter's hair back from his forehead. "I'm still angry with you, remember?"

Potter's eyes crinkle at the corners when he smiles. "I think I'll survive. But only if you stay."

Draco hesitates, then he nods. "All right."

They disentangle, Potter rising stiffly to go to the loo. Draco casts his cleaning charms, then stretches out beneath the coverlet, waiting for Potter to come back. He should firecall his mother, he thinks, but he's too limp and relaxed to bother. She'll know where he is when he doesn't come home. She's not a fool. 

Potter's gone for a while, and Draco's nearly asleep when Potter crawls onto the bed towards him. 

"Come here," Draco says sleepily, holding the coverlet up. Potter settles beside Draco, and Draco curls around Potter's back, his body warm, his hand resting on the swell of Potter's arse. He can't help but think about how his cock was just inside there. A frisson of desire goes through him. Fuck but Potter can make Draco want him in a heartbeat. 

Draco presses his mouth against Potter's shoulder. "All right?"

Potter nods, and he reaches for Draco's hand, pulling it across him. He kisses Draco's knuckles, then slides his fingers between Draco's, their hands settling together against Potter's chest. Draco can feel the quiet thud of Potter's heart against his wrist. 

This feels like home, he thinks, as his eyes drift closed, and a wave of happiness floods through him.

And Draco falls asleep.

***

Harry stands in the middle of a long hall, dark and silent. He’s been here before, he thinks, and the slap of his bare feet against dark marble echoes loudly as he walks down the corridor. Slowly the shadows recede, and he’s in a storeroom, filled with tall shelves that reach up into the dark recesses of the ceiling, each one lit only by a single blue-white candle at its end. The shelves are filled with small glass globes, misty and pale in the candlelight.

The Hall of Prophecy.

Harry hasn’t been here since his fifth year, when Malfoy’s father had led the Death Eaters against him and his friends.

Since the night Sirius had died.

Harry wants to turn around, wants to run back down that hallway, away from the glowing lights. He can’t.

He walks further in.

This can’t be real, he thinks. There are too many prophecies. Most of them were destroyed that night, when Dumbledore’s Army had knocked over the shelves, sending the shining orbs smashing against the marble floor. He can still remember the sound of the crash, the way his heart had pounded in his chest, the taste of fear deep in the back of his throat as he’d run through the hall, Neville and Hermione behind him.

Harry closes his eyes, turns around. When he opens them again, he’s on the dais in the Death Room, its stones frigid beneath his feet, the only sound the whispers seeping from the edges of the long black veil that billows from a crumbling stone archway.

The air’s chilled where Harry’s standing. He wraps his arms around his bare chest; his joggers hang low on his hips. He takes a step towards the archway, and the veil flutters, twisting in a non-existent breeze. Harry’s hands tremble. It’s almost as if his body knows what’s coming, can feel it before his mind even comprehends.

He sees the skull first, pale in the darkness, swirling from behind the wisp of fabric, and then the muscles form over it, pink flesh and white sinews that shift and grow, taking form beneath a glittering, silvery skin that creeps across the face.

“Hello, Harry,” Voldemort says, as he steps through the veil, his thin lips curving into a wide, mirthless smile. “It’s been far too long.”

“No,” Harry says, and then the others pour out from behind him, all the dead of the War, those he loved and those he hated, those he misses, those he feared. They’re filling the room, reaching out for him and their touch is cold, so very, very cold, freezing his skin where they brush against him, and he’s so fucking terrified, looking into the faces of his mother and his father and Sirius and Remus and Tonks, but none of them are _them_ , they’re all blank and empty and as they pull him under, tugging him towards the veil, Harry screams.

“Potter.”

Harry sits up, his heart staccato against his ribs, his scream still echoing in the silence of his bedroom.

Malfoy’s there, pulling Harry down next to him, wrapping his arms around Harry’s shivering, cold body. “It’s all right, Potter,” Malfoy says against Harry’s jaw. "It's all right." He smoothes Harry’s hair back. “It’s just a dream.”

Harry can’t stop shaking. “It felt real,” he says, and his head hurts, a dull, steady ache that almost feels familiar. He knows he’s mad, knows his scar hasn’t hurt for years now, knows that it’s just a remnant of the dream clinging.

“It’s not.” Malfoy’s fingers card through Harry’s hair. The soft, careful rhythm of it eases the throb in Harry’s head. He relaxes against Malfoy, letting himself breathe slowly. The thump of his heart settles a bit. After a moment, Malfoy asks, “Is this new? The nightmares, I mean.”

“Yes and no.” Harry rests his hand on Malfoy’s side. Malfoy’s skin is warm and soft beneath his palm. Harry doesn’t quite understand how Malfoy can calm him like this. No one’s been able to. Not even Ron and Hermione. Harry’s always had to settle himself on his own, and here Malfoy can touch him and Harry’s terror starts to fade away. Malfoy makes him stronger, in a way. He looks up at Malfoy, at his sleepy eyes and rumpled hair. “It happens sometimes. More over the past few months.” He hesitates, then admits, “Every night since Sunday.”

Malfoy’s silent. His fingers stroke across Harry’s temple, smooth over his earlobe. “Why?” he asks finally.

“I went to a Mind Healer.” Harry watches Malfoy’s face. He doesn’t know what for. A frisson of distaste perhaps. He doesn’t get it, and he remembers Malfoy’s been to one as well. Harry’s a bit disappointed, oddly. There’s a part of him that wanted Malfoy to be disgusted with him, to express how Harry feels about himself at the moment. He looks away. “She said it might…” He trails off and just shrugs.

“Bring up things,” Malfoy says, his voice quiet.

“Something like that.” Harry’s hand flexes against Malfoy’s skin. He feels strangely vulnerable in the dark like this, pressed against Malfoy, his arse still sore and open from Malfoy’s fucking, his body twinging, his psyche on full display. He wants to shove Malfoy away, to get up and walk downstairs into the bright warmth of the kitchen and put on a kettle. He makes himself stay still.

Malfoy’s lips brush Harry’s forehead, and Harry feels something crack deep inside of him, a well of grief he didn’t know still existed. He closes his eyes and breathes through the swell of pain.

“It’ll get better,” he hears Malfoy say. “I promise.”

Harry hopes Malfoy’s right. He feels the way he had the month after the War ended, broken open into giant shards that he’s not certain can be stitched back together this time. He’s frightened and lonely, and it’s just him again. All alone. Ron and Hermione had each other and the whole Weasley family to wrap around them back then. Ginny’d tried. Merlin, how she’d tried, but Harry’d never let her help. She’d had her own grief, he’d thought, and she didn’t need his on top of that.

Now he wonders if he’d been an idiot. If he ought to have let her in, ought to have taken her comfort. If it would have been better for both of them to grieve together instead of alone.

“It hurts,” Harry says.

Malfoy presses his forehead against Harry's. "I know." He doesn't say anything for a moment, then he sighs. "It's hard, looking at things. About yourself. About what happened."

Harry thinks of the grief, the guilt that presses into him even now, all these years later. He carries it with him every day, he thinks. He doesn't know if he'll ever be willing to give it up. It's part of him now. "Yeah." 

They lie tangled together, both of them quiet in the shadows of the bedroom. Harry wonders how Malfoy became the one he wants to turn to at moments like this. How he became the person whose doorstep Malfoy shows up on when he needs to be held. Their teenaged selves would be horrified, he thinks.

Or maybe not. Maybe not at all, and that's telling, perhaps.

What would have happened, Harry wonders, if he hadn't refused Malfoy's handshake when he was eleven? Would Malfoy's life be different? Would his be?

What if they had figured out how to end this struggle that was older than they were? And could they do it now?

“Stop thinking so hard,” Malfoy whispers against Harry’s shoulder. 

Harry catches Malfoy’s hand with his, turning his head to kiss Malfoy’s wrist. Malfoy watches him, his eyes sad and shadowed. “I’m sorry,” Harry says. “For everything.”

“Not all of it’s your fault.” Malfoy’s voice is quiet. “You don’t have to wear the sins of the world on your shoulders, Potter.”

“Neither do you.” Harry smoothes his thumb over Malfoy’s palm. 

“I might have a few more reasons for penance,” Malfoy says. 

They fall silent, lying entwined together in the moonlight, Malfoy’s long legs wrapped around Harry’s, the coverlet bunched at their waists. Harry breathes in the scent of Malfoy, musky and sweet, thinking about the choices that led him to this moment and choices he might be forced to make now.

Neither of them sleep for a long time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, you can subscribe to this fic for chapter updates, or you can subscribe for series updates [here on AO3](http://archiveofourown.org/series/661862) or follow me [on tumblr at femmequixotic!](http://femmequixotic.tumblr.com).
> 
> Chapter Three will be posted on Saturday, June 17!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the Prophet comes out, a suspect breaks, and we learn something of Althea's past.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's Saturday again and that means a new chapter! (Forgive me for just squeaking in under the deadline; this week's been a bit more RL-centric than I had wanted it to be!) I hope you enjoy this latest installment of the Special Branch adventures. Much love for your reading guesses and the general fic love in your comments. (I hope I have made some of you very happy with the developments in this chapter.) As an author, it's so amazing to have anyone read your characters, much less love them as much as you do and understand them so well. Thank you so much for all of your thoughts and your care!! 
> 
> Sassy_cissa and noeon deserve so much more than I can give them for their unflagging help and support, so I shall offer them my humble thanks. (Remember when I said it would be longer, ladies? *points at 35K word count this week* Soz/not soz? <3 <3 <3 You remain the best betas anyone can ask for! )
> 
> **Chapter warnings for references to alcoholism, consensual kink (spanking), ugly epithets from mean people, difficult character backstory (past parent death in the distant past).**

Althea's the first one into the incident room on Wednesday morning. She takes her seat and unpacks her satchel onto her desk; she's still not certain about leaving things here when she heads home at night. It doesn't feel real to be part of Seven-Four-Alpha yet, and she can't tell if it ever will be--or even if she'll be here past the end of the month. Two more days left to go on that, and she half-expects Potter to pull her aside and give her marching orders to another team. 

She's halfway through the transcript of the Lucius Malfoy interview Viola had waiting on her desk when Parkinson comes in. 

"Look at you here early," Parkinson says cheerfully. She takes a sip from one the largest cups of coffee Althea's ever seen clutched in an Auror's fist, and that's saying something. 

"Needed caffeine this morning?" Althea asks, and she wants to wince at how idiotic she sounds. 

Parkinson sets the paper cup on her desk and drops down into her chair, all long legs in her usual black tailored trousers, her black polka-dotted silk shirt open low enough for Althea to catch a glimpse of ivory bra. Parkinson's bloody gorgeous, Althea thinks, with her dark hair twisted back and her slash of bright red lipstick. Althea's smart enough to keep her dalliances outside of the office--she's seen too many Aurors undone by that--but she doesn't mind looking every now and then. "You have no idea," Parkinson says. "My mother firecalled at half-nine last night, just to chat." She hooks her fingers in the air around the last phrase. "Two hours later and I'd gone through half a bottle of wine before she finally rang off."

"I take it she's difficult?" Althea feels strange talking to Parkinson about her personal life. Still, she's fairly certain she wouldn't get this far with Zabini or Potter. Definitely not with Malfoy, but that's her own fault, now isn't it?

Zabini walks through the door before Parkinson can reply. "Morning," he says, sending his satchel soaring over to his desk with a flick of his wand. He takes off his Auror jacket and hangs it on a hook beside the door, smoothing it out. 

"Would you describe my mother as difficult, Blaise?" Parkinson calls out, and Zabini looks back over his shoulder, a bit incredulously. 

"Camilla?" Zabini walks over to Parkinson's desk and plucks the coffee from her hand. "She's as gentle as a wee little lamb. If said lamb were cross-bred with a Hungarian Horntail with a dash of Acromantula." He takes a sip of coffee and grimaces. "How many shots did you have them put in this?"

Parkinson takes the cup back. "You don't want to know."

Althea watches them with more than a bit of quiet jealousy. She's never had that easy of a rapport with anyone she's worked with, not even Maxie really, and he's the closest friend she has in the Ministry. Or was at least. He's been having a hard time accepting that Wrightson went rogue; Maxie's certain it had to be an Imperius. Or something. Maybe whatever sent Zabini after Malfoy. Althea's not so certain. She knows what Marcus said to her at Azkaban whilst he was trying to cast a Killing Curse her way. That didn't sound like a man being set up to her, and she'd told Maxie that. He hasn't really been speaking to her much the past couple of weeks.

The incident room door opens again, and Malfoy comes in, with Potter behind him. They're both carrying steaming paper cups as well, marked with the insignia of the tea shop downstairs in the Atrium. Malfoy's head is bent towards Potter's, and he laughs at whatever Potter's just said, reaching his free hand up to tuck his blond hair back behind his ear. Althea hadn't realised that Potter and Malfoy were close. Rumour had it around headquarters that they'd hated each other in school, which had been why most of their fellow Aurors were shocked when Potter'd pulled Malfoy and his lot onto his team back in May. Althea'd heard some whispers about Potter being Confunded by one or another of the Slytherins--to be fair, she'd passed those rumours on herself, if she's honest--but now she doesn't think they're true. Potter's in full control of his faculties, she's certain of that. And she's still starting to think she also might have been wrong about Malfoy. 

Even if he still is a tit.

Malfoy looks at her as he walks in, and his face shifts, goes from the open friendliness he'd shown when his gaze was on Potter to a wary guardedness. He nods to the others as he heads to his desk, and Potter watches him, an odd, almost wistful expression on his face that he changes into a wide smile when he realises Althea's studying him. 

Potter sets his satchel and his tea down on the corner of Malfoy's desk, then claps his hands, walking over to the whiteboard. "Right then. Excellent work by Whitaker on the interview yesterday." He looks over at her. "Hermione was impressed. Has she talked to you yet about Wrightson?"

"She mentioned it." Althea twists her quill between her fingertips. "But do you think it's wise, me going in there with him?" She's not certain of it, doesn't know if she can handle Marcus. Malfoy senior was easy compared to what Marcus will be like. 

"I think you can handle it," Potter says. He looks over at Zabini. "You're up for Hopkirk today."

Zabini nods. "Her barrister'll be present."

"Careful with her," Potter says. He's in shirtsleeves, and he stops to unbutton the cuffs, rolling them up to his elbows as he thinks. "She's the most fragile of the lot in the holding cells, so I think you can break her, if you put the pressure on gently. But Anvi Shafiq's a good barrister, so watch your step. If you fuck up in there it'll come back when she goes in front of the Wizengamot, I can assure you."

"Yes, guv," Zabini says. He taps a notepad. "I've been writing up questions." 

"Good." Potter looks pleased. He picks up the whiteboard quill and taps it against his palm. "So if we can break Hopkirk and possibly Wrightson, I'm not worried about Bates and Selwyn. They'll crack eventually. We just need enough intel from the other two." He studies the whiteboard and the facts scribbled across it. "Whitaker, you'll go after Wrightson tomorrow, I think. I really want to give Mafalda a chance."

Althea's relieved. She just doesn't think she's up for facing Marcus this morning. She needs another day to get adjusted to the idea.

"So," Malfoy says, swiveling his chair back and forth, "are we ever going to bring my beloved uncle in for questioning?" He leans forward, his elbows on the table. "It's just he's tucked up so nicely in Azkaban, and according to this one here--" He nods towards Althea. "Uncle Rody was his usual charming self when she went past him. Not to mention he's in the logs as having visitors, Wrightson included." 

Malfoy carefully doesn't mention his father was one, Althea notes. She looks back over at Potter, who's shaking his head. 

"I'm not ready yet," Potter says. He rolls the whiteboard quill between his fingers, letting the white-feathered tip of it brush his chin. "I want this lot broken first. Lestrange is going to be harder--"

"Let me at him," Malfoy says, a grim set to his mouth. 

Potter just gives him a look. "No interviews by close relatives. You know that protocol."

"It's a stupid one." But Malfoy sits back in his chair. 

"And it's there for a goddamned reason," Potter says. He glances around the room. "Any other questions about what our next steps might be? Parkinson, you still testing that evidence?"

"Yes, and it's bloody boring and practically useless," Parkinson says. "Circe only knows what the WPS will do with any of it, but I'm processing it like a good little magiforensicologist. What I want to know, guv, is will that rubbish in the _Prophet_ about the bloody Registry be squashed?" She gives Potter an even look over the rim of her takeaway cup. "Because that's bloody bollocks and we all know it."

Potter's the one who looks sour now. Malfoy just glances away. "The Wizengamot are going to vote on it, I'm sure," Potter says. "There's no way Hawkworth and Marchbanks are going to back down on it now that it's in the press." Potter picks up his tea and takes a sip before setting it back down on the edge of Malfoy's desk. "I'll be able to speak against it in the hearing though. Kingsley's promised me that."

"Against it?" Althea finds herself asking before she thinks, and four sets of eyes turn on her, all of them narrowed and sharp. She holds up her hands. "I'm just asking. Most people will think it a bit odd that Harry Potter's speaking up for Death Eaters." Merlin, but it's not a mad question, whatever this lot might think. She's surprised that even Potter is giving her an offended look.

"I'm speaking out against a ridiculously idiotic policy," Potter says, his voice calmer than the twitch in his jaw suggests.

Malfoy pushes his hair back behind his ears again, watching her. His sleeves are rolled down today, cuffed tightly around his wrists. She's noticed they've been like that every day she's been in the office, as if he doesn't want her to say something about his Mark. "I suppose you're in favour of it."

"I don't know." Honestly, Althea hasn't thought about it much. Merlin, but it was only announced yesterday as a possibility. She doesn't even know what it might entail. "It doesn't seem like the worst idea, knowing where those people are."

"Those people," Malfoy echoes. His face is closed off. "Because it's not enough that most of the individuals who'd be on that Registry are already known to the Ministry, or that a good chunk of the dangerous ones are in Azkaban already serving out sentences, or are dead." 

Zabini speaks up then. "And let's not forget that two of the Death Eaters we're going after were thought to be in that latter category, so I fail to see how having a Registry would have bloody stopped them in the first place." The look he gives Althea is scathing. Even Parkinson turns away, reaching her hand out to brush Malfoy's arm.

Althea feels like she's stepped in a hornets' nest. "I'm not saying it's the best idea, but if it could help--"

"Oh, I'm sure you'd like to see slime like my mother and myself on it, wouldn't you?" Malfoy's cheeks are staining pink. "When all we've done is try to make amends--"

"That's not what I--" Althea starts to say, her ire rising at being misinterpreted, and then Potter cuts her off.

"Enough." Potter doesn't look at Althea. "I think it's clear how this team feels about the Registry, Whitaker. I'm not saying you have to agree, but I think it's best to keep discussion about it out of this room for now. Everyone clear?"

The room's silent until Malfoy nods.

Althea feels like a shit. She doesn't like it, and she doesn't think she'll ever manage to fit in with this lot. For a moment, she considers marching down to Robards' office and demanding he reassign her, but then she looks at the whiteboard and sees Dolohov and Yaxley's names scrawled across one side, and she knows she can't. If nothing else, she owes it to her mum to find the bastards who killed her. 

She settles back in her chair, her head bent. Parkinson's watching her, but she looks away when Althea glances her way. Althea's heart sinks a little. She'd almost thought Parkinson might be a friend, but Malfoy will always supercede Althea. She knows that, and she understands it. She wonders what it would be like to have those sorts of friends. Ones who'd stand by you no matter what. Althea isn't a loner, not by any means. But she doesn't think she's ever had friends whom she was certain had her back. Not even back in school.

 _Especially_ not back in school.

"Assignments," Potter says, breaking the awkward silence. "Zabini, you're on Hopkirk, but before you tackle that, Gawain wants you to stop by his office."

"Someone's in trouble," Parkinson sings with a small smile, and Zabini flips two fingers her way. 

Still, Zabini looks a bit unsettled, despite the sugar quill sticking out of the side of his mouth, staining his lips blue. "Anything I should worry about, guv?" he asks. 

"Not that I know of." Potter shrugs. "Viola just mentioned it in passing when Malfoy and I were walking in this morning."

Parkinson and Zabini get quiet, exchanging a sideways glance. Strange, Althea thinks, but whatever. If there's one thing she's learnt over the past three days, it's that the Slytherins are an odd bunch when they want to be.

Potter clears his throat and turns to Althea. "I want you prepping for Wrightson tomorrow. Go through everything we have--I've even asked for his personnel file. I want you to use anything you can to crack him, yeah?"

"I can do that, guv," Althea says. She doesn't quite believe she can, but she does her best to keep her voice confident. Potter gives her a long, careful look, but he nods. 

"Malfoy," Potter says, and Malfoy looks over at him, his mouth still a bit sullen. "I want you sifting through the supposed Dolohov sightings we've been getting. See if anything seems plausible or if it's Stubby Boardman-level shite." Before Malfoy can protests, Potter adds, almost gently, "I know it's mindless work in a way, but I think you need something a bit simple today, yeah?"

"All right," Malfoy says, but his shoulders relax a bit. "As long as you realise you're wasting my copious talents."

Potter's mouth twitches to one side. "Duly noted." He glances at Parkinson, who holds up her hands. 

"I know," she says. "Lab."

"Sorry." Potter sets the quill down in the whiteboard tray. "Just send the results down to WPS when you're done." He rubs at a smudge of ink on his finger. "Anything on the Dementor report?"

Parkinson hesitates. "I'll talk to you later about it. Nothing to waste anyone's time on."

Althea thinks Parkinson's not entirely telling the truth. Still, when she glances over at Malfoy and Zabini, neither of them seem as if they're going to call her on it. Or as if they notice. 

Weird, Althea thinks again, reaching for her file on Marcus as the others scatter to their own tasks.

She supposes someday she'll learn to read their cues, but right now she's bloody mystified.

***

Blaise knocks on the doorjamb to Viola's office. "Hey, gorgeous," he says, and she looks up at him, a wide smile brightening her face.

"Constable Zabini, you're inappropriate." Viola turns in her chair, her eyes twinkling. "And an awful flirt, to boot."

"I do try." Blaise leans against the side of her desk. He's learnt in his years on the force that staying on Viola's good side is important. Woe to the Auror who thinks she's only an assistant; Viola's the most powerful person in this office, Blaise thinks. "Is he in?" He jerks his chin towards Robards office. "Only I was told to come see him before the Hopkirk interview."

Viola nods. "He's expecting you."

Blaise blows her a kiss, which makes Viola roll her eyes.

"Stop it," she says, but there's a tiny smile quirking her mouth again.

Robards looks up when Blaise opens his office door. "Ah, Zabini. Come in." The Head Auror stands. He looks exhausted, Blaise thinks, and the folds around his eyes seem deeper, more etched into his sun-spotted skin. He picks up a folded piece of paper and comes around the side of his desk, meeting Blaise halfway. "I wanted to give this to you personally."

Blaise takes the paper. "What is it, sir?" He unfolds it, curious.

"Gideon Titus is officially dropping the investigation into the incident at the Crickerly Building," Robards says. "That's your copy of the paperwork notifying us. The original's been placed in your file."

Blaise skims the document. "So I'm cleared of all wrongdoing."

"Titus is recommending that we add mental coercement charges to Dolohov's case record." Robards studies Blaise's face. "I agree, if you're willing."

"I can't see the problem with that, sir," Blaise says. Relief's flooding through him. It's not that he hadn't known this would be the end result--Potter wouldn't have allowed anything else, Blaise knows full well--but it feels good to be officially deemed innocent of trying to murder one of his best friends. 

"Well done then." Robards holds out his hand, and Blaise takes it, his fingers curling around Robards'. "It's good to fully reinstate you back into Auror service with no restrictions or recommendations for discipline on your record, Constable."

"Thank you, sir." Blaise gives him a wide grin. "I'll do my best to not to be goaded into torturing Sergeant Malfoy again."

Robards laughs. "See that you do." 

Blaise is nearly out of the office when Robards says, "You're interviewing Hopkirk."

"Yes, sir." Blaise turns back, his file jacket on Mafalda clutched at his side. 

Robards nods. "Her counsel's going to ask for a lesser charge to be filed for her cooperation."

"I expect so, sir." Blaise scratches his temple. "But I can't authorise--"

"Do it." Robards looks grim. "I'm not willing to drop the charges against her, but I would be willing for us to show some leniency. But only if she provides information that's useful, understood?"

Blaise nods. "Utterly." He reaches for the doorknob. 

"And I hope your grandfather is doing well," Robards says, sitting back down behind his desk. "I'm expecting a direct report from him soon, regarding the situation with the Dementors." He meets Blaise's gaze, and the chill of it unsettles Blaise. Whatever bad blood's between his grandfather and Robards is old and deep, and Blaise isn't certain he wants to know any more about it. "You'll convey that, I hope. Whilst Unspeakable Durant's write-up was quite interesting, your grandfather is required to see me weekly. He seems to have forgotten we had an appointment yesterday morning, and I'd hate to forcibly remove him from the Beaumont."

"Yes, sir." Blaise licks his lip. "I'll remind him." It won't do any good, he thinks. If there's one thing Blaise has learnt about Barachiel Dee, it's that the man does whatever the fuck he wants, when he wants. If he's avoiding Robards, there's not much Blaise can do about it other than pass the message along. At which point his grandfather will probably laugh and say Gawain Robards can suck donkey cock, or something along those lines. It'll sound more elegant, but the sentiment will be the same.

Blaise slides out of Robards' office. Viola's away from her desk, and Blaise is a bit relieved. That last moment unsettled him, and he's not certain he wants Viola's sharp, inquisitive eyes on him right now. He shifts his file jacket from one hand to the other and takes a deep breath, trying to centre himself. He's an interview to do now. 

He strides out into the bullpen, a smile on his face. Never let an Auror see you troubled, he thinks. They start poking their noses into places they bloody well shouldn't.

When Blaise makes it over to the interview room Hopkirk's been assigned to, Granger's waiting for him, with Jake a step behind. Blaise slows, looking between them. 

"I thought I was just taking on one Unspeakable," he says lightly. "Not two."

Granger gives him a smile, a bright flash of teeth. Blaise wonders if she has to deal with the same sideways looks he gets from a few of his colleagues, when he knows they can't quite see past his skin colour, or if she's above that, given not only her association with Potter but also her famous magical abilities. Magical power is a currency to be reckoned with in the Ministry, and Granger has it in spades.

"Jake's sitting in for me," she says. "I need to work on the Wrightson interview with Whitaker, so I thought you wouldn't mind if he took my place."

No, Blaise thinks. He doesn't mind at all. "Whatever," he says, with a nod towards Jake. His stomach twists a bit at the thought of having to interview a suspect in front of Jake--what if he bollocks up, he thinks--but he's not about to admit that to either of them. 

"Brill," Granger says. "All Croaker wants is a warm body from our department, so Jake should suffice."

"Thanks," Jake says with a quick smile at her, and Granger laughs up at him. 

"You'll both be fine." Granger touches Blaise's arm. "Good luck." She's gone in a waft of rose perfume and bouncing curls, and Blaise looks over at Jake. 

"Well," he says, and Jake's blue eyes crinkle at the corners. 

"You could have told her no," Jake says.

Blaise snorts. "Hermione Granger? I think not." Not even the guv tells Granger no if he can help it. Blaise looks at Jake. "So, how do you want to do this? You want the lead? It might be tricky, legally."

"I think it's best I just observe," Jake says. "I don't have jurisdiction here, anyway."

Privately Blaise thinks that's bollocks. If Jake wanted to throw his weight around, he could and no one would say a thing, least of all Robards. But he nods, his nervousness spiking a bit, the way it always does when he's about to walk into an interview room. Blaise squares his shoulders and takes a deep breath. "Right then," he says, and he pushes the door open and strides in. 

Mafalda Hopkirk's already at the table, her barrister beside her. Hopkirk's a rabbity woman, small and too thin and sallow pale, Blaise thinks, almost as if she's malnourished. Her brown hair has a few streaks of grey along the temples, and it's cut short and messily, a thick wavy tousle that spills around her narrow, pointed face in a ragged bob. It looks like she took a shearing charm to her hair herself. Hopkirk's grey robe is almost hanging off her, and she's chewing on her thumbnail when he comes in, her arms pulled close to her chest, entire body slumped in her chair.

Anvi Shafiq, however, sits ramrod straight, the gold embroidery around the collar of her robe shimmering in the harsh light of the interview room. Her black hair is pulled back into an intricately twisted knot at the nape of her neck, and her brick-red lips are pressed together when she looks up at him, her dark eyes assessing him. "Constable Zabini," she says, extending a slim brown hand. He takes it; her fingers are strong and cool. 

"Ms Shafiq." Blaise lets her hand go as he takes his seat. 

"Call me Anvi, please," she says, and her gaze shifts to Jake. "I wasn't aware there'd be a Legilimens in the room."

Blaise opens his file jacket. "Unspeakable Durant's here only as an observer for the Department of Mysteries."

Anvi frowns at Jake. "He's American, not British."

"I'm an observer at Hermione Granger's request," Jake says, his voice firm. "As Constable Zabini said."

"I don't like it." Anvi drums her fingers across the table. "I want verbal confirmation on the recording that no Legilimency will be used on my client, and if I see the recording charm shift indicating it has, we're done. Do I make myself clear?"

"Entirely." Blaise meets her gaze. "If Legilimency is used, the charm will shift to blue. It's an automatic detection for your client's safety and ours, Anvi. You know that. We don't want anything inadmissible either."

Anvi doesn't look happy. "Fine, but we retain our right to terminate this interview at any point."

"Of course." Blaise starts the recording charm; it glows green at the table's side. "Constable Blaise Zabini of the London Auror force interviewing Mafalda Eloise Hopkirk at eleven fourteen a.m. on the twenty-eighth of June, two thousand and six. Unspeakable Jake Durant of MACUSA is present as an observer, as is Ms Hopkirk's legal counsel, Anvi Shafiq. It is acknowledged that during the course of this interview, Unspeakable Durant will not utilise any form of Legilimency against Ms Hopkirk without express approval by her and her counsel. Do you agree to those terms, Unspeakable Durant?"

"Absolutely," Jake says, and Anvi gives him a regal nod.

"Excellent." Blaise picks up his quill. "The recording charm will, as always, indicate if any Legilimency is performed in this room during this interview. Prior to the start of this recording, Ms Hopkirk's fingerprints and magical signature have been recorded and confirmed within the Auror database as per the Wizengamot Justice and Courts Act of 1999. Ms Hopkirk, you remain under caution from your arrest and previous interview. Do you understand?"

Hopkirk glances quickly at Anvi, then nods. 

"For the recording," Blaise says gently. 

"I do." Hopkirk's voice is a bit wavery. That bodes well, Blaise thinks. "Understand," Hopkirk adds. She pulls at her bottom lip with her fingers, her body still hunched in on itself. 

Blaise exchanges a glance with Jake, who gives him a small smile and nods. 

"Ms Hopkirk," Blaise says. "We're here to talk to you about the events of the seventh of June when you were discovered in James Selwyn's cell in Azkaban. Can you tell us what you were doing there?"

Hopkirk looks at Anvi again. 

"My client," Anvi says, "is willing to be of assistance to the inquiry but only if charges against her are dropped."

"Not bloody likely." Blaise leans forward. "We caught her in Selwyn's cell. She's not an innocent." Before Anvi can protest, he holds up a hand. "I am authorised, however, to offer a lesser charge. Head Auror's orders."

Anvi looks impressed. "Drop the conspiracy charge and the treason charge."

"You'll accept the accessory charge then?" Blaise makes a note on the front of Hopkirk's file. "If you're found guilty," he says to Hopkirk, "there'll be an Azkaban sentence, but if you and Anvi here play your cards right, it'll be months rather than years."

Hopkirk and Anvi exchange a long look, then Hopkirk nods. "All right." She wipes her palms across her thighs. "I'll take it."

Jake shifts, leans over to murmur into Blaise's ear, "Croaker won't like it."

"Croaker can bloody well take it up with Robards then," Blaise says softly, too low for the recording charm to pick up. Jake's mouth twitches, and he leans back in his chair. Anvi's eyes narrow at both of them, but the recording spell stays a bright green, so she can't complain. 

"So what were you doing in Selwyn's cell?" Blaise asks. 

Hopkirk hesitates, then says, "It was an arrangement. They paid me money to take Polyjuice in." She chews on her lip. "We'd pretend to have conjugal visits. The guards didn't care about that. They thought it was funny, really, that I couldn't get enough of James." Her mouth twists. "As if I'd--" She glances away, a flush rising on her sallow cheeks. "Anyway. They'd leave us alone, and we'd swap Polyjuice potions. He'd walk out as me, and I'd stay as him. That's all it ever was." She looks at Blaise. "I'm not a Death Eater."

"But you were helping one," Blaise says. 

Hopkirk wraps her arms tighter around herself. "The money," she starts to say.

"We've never found any extra funds in your Gringotts accounts." Blaise keeps his voice light but firm. "Nothing that looks like an influx of dosh anywhere for the past two years."

"But." Hopkirk pulls deeper into herself, like she's a tiny bird trying to fold herself smaller. "Of course there was--" She breaks off as Anvi touches her arm, shakes her head. 

Blaise studies Hopkirk for a long moment. If there's one thing Blaise knows it's people and how they work. It's a skill that's stood him in good stead throughout his career with the Auror force. And people commit crimes mostly for love or money. Sometimes ideology, but Hopkirk doesn't really strike him as that sort. And without the money, that leaves only…. 

"You were in love with him," Blaise says.

Hopkirk doesn't look at him. She's silent. 

"Mafalda." Blaise's voice is quiet. 

The silence in the room stretches out before Anvi says, "That's not an appropriate line of questioning, Constable Zabini--"

"But I think it is." Blaise looks over at Jake who gives him the faintest of nods. You don't have to be a Legilimens to see that Hopkirk's upset; she's twisting the cuff of her robe around her fingers. "Mafalda, were you in love with James Selwyn?"

Hopkirk stares down at her hands. 

"You don't have to answer that, Mafalda," Anvi says to her. The look she gives Blaise is scathing. 

And then Hopkirk looks up at Blaise. "I was. When we were younger. We were at Hogwarts together, and he was--" She chews on her lip. "The boy I knew wasn't the man he became. And I loved him. And perhaps that never entirely went away." She brushes her hair back from her face. "You think me a fool."

"I think you're misguided," Blaise says. He keeps his voice gentle. "But we've all been there, haven't we?"

Hopkirk gives him a faint, almost watery smile. "He was lovely, James was. And then he fell in with other lads. His brother for one, and they led him astray. But I was always there for him--"

"During the War, you said you were Imperiused." Blaise leans his elbows on the table. "Were you actually? Or were you helping Selwyn even then?"

"I rather think that's out of the scope of this inquiry," Anvi snaps. "Don't answer that, Mafalda. Constable Zabini, we are willing to assist you in this particular case, but my client is _not_ going to make herself open to any other line of questioning, do I make myself clear?"

Blaise glances over at her. Anvi's face is flushed and her mouth is a thin, angry line. He nods. "My apologies, Ms Hopkirk." He settles back in his chair, studying Mafalda. She's still frightened, he realises. 

Jake scrawls a line across his notepad, angling it so that Blaise can see his sharp, spiky handwriting. _She's terrified. Someone? Something? It's radiating off her in waves._ Anvi's gaze shifts between them, but the recording charm hold green again, so she can't complain. 

Hopkirk's chair creaks beneath her as she shifts her hips. Her slow exhale is the only sound in the room. 

Blaise sucks on his cheek for a moment before rubbing a hand over his face. "You're scared of someone," he says. "You don't need to be. I can protect you."

"No, you can't," Hopkirk says after a moment. Her hands tremble as she plucks at her cuffs. "You can't stop anything, any of you." She looks up at Blaise, and her eyes are heated and bright. "You think you can, but you can't because it's more than any of us can imagine, what they're wanting to do."

"And what's that?" Blaise asks, leaning forward again. "You can tell me, Mafalda."

She turns away, towards Anvi. They bend their heads together, whispering, then Hopkirk looks back at Blaise. "I'll admit what I did," she says. "James asked me to come see him, and I did, and I took his place when he needed to get out."

"Why?" Blaise asks. "Why didn't he just stay out? Why bother to come back?"

"Because they expected him to," Hopkirk says, her face drawn. "You don't understand what they want. What they were doing. They ran Azkaban, all of them, and they bribed people like Marcus to help them out. It was safe there for them, safer than any other place in England, and they were all together--" Her voice rises, and she draws in a shaky breath. 

"Who?" Blaise knows the answer, but he needs her to say it. "Come on, Mafalda."

And it's there that she cracks. "The Death Eaters. Who else? When certain guards were there, they could walk free among the prisoners. The Dementors never touched them. But they couldn't leave, you see. There had to be a body there. In the prison, in the cell--the hourly counts had to be right."

"And Selwyn asked you to cover for him." Blaise breathes out. "To be his body." She nods. Blaise exchanges a look with Jake. "And what were they planning in there?"

Hopkirk shakes her head. "I don't know. An uprising. Something." Her voice drops to a whisper. "The Dark Lord coming back."

Blaise's entire body chills, a shudder going through him. "That's not possible."

"I only heard whispers," Hopkirk says. "James made them stop talking in front of me." She rubs at her ear. "About Horcruxes. About how they planned to get them and whether they could revive them." 

Anvi puts a hand on Hopkirk's arm. She looks shaken. "You don't have to--"

"I do," Hopkirk says, and her voice trembles. 

"Who were these people?" Jake sits forward now, pulling a sheet of paper from his notepad and pushing it towards Hopkirk with his quill. "Can you write down their names?"

Hopkirk shakes her head violently. "I can't. I don't really know--"

"Marcus Wrightson," Blaise snaps. He's not going to take this shit from her. She knows things, and he'll have them, for fuck's sake. "Martin Bates. Were they part of the group?"

For a moment, Hopkirk's silent, then she nods. "They were paid for their help. I took the money from James' French accounts and gave it to them." She hesitates, then says, "But someone else was telling him to pay them. James was part of it, but he wasn't the mastermind."

"Lestrange, then," Blaise says, but Hopkirk's shaking her head before he has the name out.

"Someone on the outside," she says. 

Blaise stills. Fucking Merlin, but if she says Lucius Malfoy, he'll punch through this table. "Who, then?"

Hopkirk hunches in on herself again. "I don't know. I really don't. James never said, and it was never something I asked. I just know whoever it was wasn't in an Azkaban cell." She looks at Anvi. "I can't any more," she says. "I'm sorry, but--" She breaks off, wrapping her arms around herself.

Anvi nods, glancing at Blaise. "I think my client's been more than enough forthcoming for the moment. I'll ask that this interview be terminated based on her rights per the Wizengamot Interrogation Act of 1983."

Fuck, Blaise thinks. Once counsel's invoked that, he has to acquiesce and Anvi knows it. He gives her a look that lets his displeasure come through loud and clear. She just shrugs and turns to her client. 

"Interview terminated at--" Blaise glances at his watch. "Eleven thirty-four a.m. My thanks to Ms Hopkirk for her assistance, and I'm certain her counsel recognises that once this new information is brought to my superiors' attention, we'll be wanting another interview to confirm the data."

"Counsel acknowledges that," Anvi says, "and requests at least twenty-four hours notice before that interview is conducted, as per protocol."

Blaise closes his file jacket. "Of course." He sweeps his wand across the table, ending the recording charm. "Ms Hopkirk. Ms Shafiq." He stands and strides out of the room, Jake following close behind. 

The door closes behind them with a soft thunk, and Blaise stops halfway down the hallway to lean against a wall. "Fuck," he says, and for a moment he thinks he might sick up right here. 

Jake's hand settles on his shoulder. "Breathe," he says. "You did great."

Blaise isn't so certain about that. "Half-arsed."

"She gave you more than she's given anyone so far." Jake leans next to him. The hallway's empty, thank Merlin. "You should be pleased. We know there's a connection between these four suspects, and what it is--mostly." He nudges Blaise with his shoulder. "And that's thanks to you. You're a good interviewer." 

The compliment makes Blaise feel oddly warm. "Thanks," he says, and he feels a bit flustered. He looks away from Jake's easy smile. He hates that his friends have been putting thoughts of Jake in his head, making him wonder if there could be something between them. Which there can't. Blaise knows that. It'd be stupid to begin with, given that Jake'll be going back to New York soon, and besides, there's the whole terribly incestous fact that Jake's the guv's ex, and the guv's now shagging Draco, and even the thought of Blaise shagging Jake, while delicious to consider late at night when he's alone in his flat, just feels a bit off when he's standing here beside him in the middle of a Ministry corridor. 

Still, Blaise can't help but wonder what Jake would do if Blaise leaned in and pressed his mouth against those perfect, soft lips of his. 

Probably deck him if he's in his bloody right mind, Blaise thinks.

"You need to report this," Jake's saying, and Blaise tries to focus his attention back onto Jake's words and not his mouth. "Harry'll want to know."

"Right," Blaise says, and he pushes himself off the wall. "Granger too, if she's going after Wrightson tomorrow with Althea. You'll let her know?"

Jake nods. "As soon as I see her."

Blaise looks over at Jake. He feels awkward, and it's not a sensation Blaise is intimately familiar with, if he's honest. In most situations he feels confident, as if he has the upper hand. His mother taught him that trick, and it works, usually. With Jake, though, Blaise feels as if he's always on his back foot. He's not sure he likes that. "Thanks for sitting in with me."

Jake walks down the hall with him. "Not a problem." He stops at the corner. "You did all the work," he says with a grin. 

"Still," Blaise says. "I owe you a drink." A mad wave of boldness sweeps over him. "Or dinner." The moment the words are out, he regrets them. Almost. 

But Jake just laughs. "Watch out. I might just take you up on both." 

Please, Blaise thinks. Instead he just shrugs. "Name the place and the time, and I'll bring my Galleons," he says as Jake turns, heading towards the DMLE lifts.

He watches Jake walk away.

Circe, Zabini, he tells himself. You're a bloody damned fool. 

Blaise turns on his heel and heads back to the incident room.

***

Hermione's already perched in a window seat at the King's Road Starbucks in Chelsea when Harry walks across the street. She waves at him and lifts two white cups with that familiar green logo. Blessed woman, he thinks, and he pushes the door open, the blast of cool air hitting him as he steps in off the pavement, away from the late afternoon heat of the city.

This is where they come when they want to talk without being overheard in the Ministry; it's close enough to pop in and back without their absence being noticed, but far enough out from Westminster that the likelihood of stumbling into a colleague, even a Muggleborn who might have a thirst for a shitty, overpriced latte, is almost non-existent. 

Harry can feel Hermione's Muffliato settling on him the moment he slides onto his stool. "Hey," he says, taking the coffee she hands him. "You've read the interview transcript?" The moment Zabini'd told him what Hopkirk'd said, he'd gone to Viola to have the recording transcribed on an accelerated schedule. It's nearly half-four now, so Hermione ought to have received her copy an hour ago.

"Yeah," Hermione says. She takes a sip of her coffee, staring out the window at the passing traffic. "You think she's telling the truth?"

"Maybe." Harry leans his elbows on the counter. He runs a thumbnail down the side of his paper cup. "It could be a wild goose chase."

Hermione doesn't look at him. "What do you think?"

Harry doesn't want to, if he's honest. He rubs his scar, without realising until Hermione's gaze flicks up to it. He drops his hand. The last thing he wants is to admit to her that he's been having nightmares about Voldemort, that his scar's been aching. Especially not with Mafalda bloody Hopkirk's dramatics today. He sighs. "I think they might have said things around her that she thinks mean certain things." He picks up his coffee cup. "I killed him, Hermione. I know I did. I felt it when it happened."

"Technically he killed himself," Hermione says. "But I get your meaning." She turns her coffee between her hands. "I know this can't be easy for you, all of this coming up again."

"It's not." Harry surprises himself with his honesty. He gives Hermione a sideways look. "I've started seeing a Mind Healer though. Someone Jake recommended. I've another appointment with her tomorrow." 

The look Hermione gives him is filled with relief. "Oh, Harold," she says, squeezing his arm. "I'm glad to hear that." She hesitates. "Are you all right with it?"

Harry wants to say no, but he shrugs instead. "I've just started, so I don't know. Maybe? I reckon it's good timing if that shit's coming back to us." He's felt a bit numb since Zabini had shown up in his office telling him about the interview. There's a part of him that's just so bloody done with all of it. He sighs. "They can't bring back Horcruxes can they?"

"Not that I know of." Hermione watches a bright red bendy bus rumble past. Harry didn't think they let that sort through Chelsea. "Once they're destroyed, they're gone. You're the only one that's survived."

And that's what makes Harry nervous. "You don't think--"

"No," Hermione says firmly. "Jesus, Harry. He's not still inside you. Remember, we've scanned you with everything possible."

You still don't know that, Harry wants to say. Not for certain. Instead he bites his lip, and says, "Well, if they set up this damned Registry, I'll be first in line to sign myself up. Reckon a Horcrux trumps a Dark Mark."

"Don't be daft." Hermione raises her cup to her mouth. "Kingsley'd never let you, to begin with, and they're rather different choices. As in you had none."

Harry falls silent for a moment, then he sighs. "Do you think they'll push it through the Wizengamot?"

"I don't know," Hermione admits. "It's a stupid idea, but Merlin knows we've seen stupider things go through Government, so I don't want to discount it. Still, I think it's a long shot. The judicial side'll push back against it."

Christ, but Harry hopes so. The Wizengamot's divided into two houses; one's elected and the Minister's chosen from their ranks. The other is made of the judges who preside over cases, developing court law. Thankfully, that half tends to be a bit less reactive than the others. Hawkworth and Marchbanks are elected members; Harry can only hope the appointed judges are able to block them.

He watches a mother go past, her two children dragging their feet behind her. One's tow-haired and sulky, and he can't help but wonder if that's what Malfoy'd looked like as a child. Hermione follows his gaze, a wistful smile on her face before she turns back to him.

"You're worried about Malfoy," she says. 

Harry shrugs. "Wouldn't you be?" She doesn't answer, and he looks over at her. 'You can't think he deserves to be registered."

"No," Hermione says. "But I do worry about you." She hesitates. "When it comes to him."

"You shouldn't." Harry can't help the irritated tone in his voice. "I'm a grown bloody man."

"I didn't say you weren't." Hermione shifts on her stool; her short yellow and white floral skirt slips higher up her thighs. "I just know you can be a fool, and I don't want to watch you tilt at windmills."

Harry sighs, willing himself to calm down. This is his best friend. She wants what's good for him. Even if he's not sure either what that is any longer. "Sorry. I'm just irritable. It's actually a side effect of the bloody Mind Healing." Another warning from Freddie that he'd been grateful for. Harry takes another sip of the coffee and grimaces. It's milky and burnt-tasting at the same time. Still, he drinks it, and tries to look like he likes it for anyone who might be passing by.

Hermione nods, scanning his face. "Don't mess up everything for Malfoy, Harry. I know you have feelings for him, but you won't help him by trying to immolate yourself. He'll need you if this goes through, and you can't squander your political position."

She's right, of course. Harry knows that intellectually. But why is his every instinct to stand with Malfoy against the world, even against his best friend? It's not as if Malfoy doesn't have people in his corner. Zabini and Parkinson would take down anyone who came after him. 

Malfoy doesn't need Harry. He never has.

"It's just been a rough week," Harry says over the rim of his cup. "And it's only bloody Wednesday."

Hermione glances over at him. "It'll only get worse once Hopkirk's testimony comes out. You know that."

Harry sets his coffee down. Even through the Muffliato he can hear the baristas' laughter and the lilt of voices at the till. There's a certain sameness about a Starbucks, he thinks, no matter where you are in the bloody world. He hates it, and yet it's strangely comforting in its own way. 

"Gawain's marked it eyes-only for now," he says. "Only our team and you and the division heads will have access to it until it goes in the WPS record."

"That'll buy us a week at most," Hermione says. She leans against the counter, chin propped on her fist, gaze fixed on the street. She's keeping an eye out for anyone who might recognise them, he knows. Harry's certain she has some slightly illegal charm up as well, but he also knows better than to ask. "Orla Quirke's sniffing around this story already. Evidently she's Rita's new protégé, God help us all."

Harry hunches his shoulders. "She can't be worse."

"She's still young," Hermione points out. "Although at least she considers herself an ethical journo. For now at least. We'll see how long that lasts under Rita's tutelage."

Harry sighs. "So where do we go now?"

"Where we've always been going." Hermione looks over at him. "Wherever this bloody case takes us, Harry."

"I was afraid you say that." Harry gives her a small, quick smile. He tries another sip of the coffee. It's still terrible. "Has Jake talked to you about the Dementors?"

"He's furious about what they're planning to do with them, yes." Hermione frowns. "Not that I can blame him. Why?"

Harry hesitates. Parkinson had told him about Jake coming to her, asking her for help in blocking the Ministry. He doesn't know if he should pass that on to Hermione. Not yet at least. He doesn't think Jake intended for either of them to know, if he's honest. He chews on his lip, then says, "He's asked Parkinson to help him set up a case to stop the Ministry."

Judging by Hermione's face she didn't know that. "Christ." She rubs the bridge of her nose. "I mean, I'm glad in a way, but it'll complicate things." She looks over at Harry. "Are you letting Parkinson do it?"

"Do you think I could stop her if I tried?" Harry snorts into his coffee. "Please. I'm SIO of that team in name only."

"That's not true," Hermione says. "They respect you."

Maybe. Harry sets his cup down. "Well, I told her she should help him. So I just thought you ought to know, in case you get caught in the backwash."

She sighs. "Thanks. I love Jake, but sometimes I think he forgets this isn't his bloody Government."

Harry wants to point out that Jake's been in Luxembourg long enough to feel like the whole world's his to run. Harry knows the feeling; it's easy to fall into when you're working with the ICW. Instead he props his chin on his fist and asks, "Do you think Whitaker's ready for Wrightson tomorrow?"

Hermione considers, her mouth pursed slightly. "Probably. She has the data and I feel confident she'll be willing to use it. I just don't know how her nerve's going to hold up going against him. She puts on a good front, but I think she's a bit more fragile about all of this than she's letting on."

"Yeah." Harry's thought the same thing. He sits up, his hand falling down to the counter."My theory is she's abrasive and angry because she just can't bear to let anyone else see how upset she is. Been doing that since her mum died, I reckon."

"Look at you with the amateur Mind Healing." Hermione laughs. 

Harry flicks two fingers at her, but he smiles. "I'm a bloody Auror, woman. I see things."

"When you want to." Hermione brushes her curls back from her brown cheek. They spring back again, and she just looks annoyed. "Are we taking another shot at Hopkirk?"

"I put the request in with Viola, but it won't be approved until tomorrow morning," Harry says. "And Shafiq's pulling the twenty-four hour notice shit on us--"

"She does need to prepare," Hermione points out.

Harry shrugs. "I've put her on the schedule for Friday morning, if that works for you. Wrightson tomorrow, maybe Selwyn too, or do you think we should hold off on him until we hit Mafalda up again?"

Hermione twists the cap on her cup, frowning. "Let's wait until we have a shot at Wrightson. He still hasn't hired counsel, and Selwyn has, so I suspect we'll just get a series of no comments from him unless both Hopkirk and Wrightson break."

"Works for me." Harry looks over at her. "Any plans for tonight?"

"A bottle of wine, a bath and Ron rubbing my feet," Hermione says. "Probably an early night, if I can manage it. You?" He can tell by the lightness of her voice that she wants to know if Malfoy's coming over.

"Just some paperwork." Harry wishes Malfoy'd show up at his house again, but when he'd brought it up this morning, Malfoy'd just shaken his head and said he needed to spend the evening with his mother. Harry hadn't been able to argue with that. 

Hermione eyes him. "You could come over for dinner, if you want." She smiles. "The wine and the bath won't happen until later."

Harry wants to. Badly. He doesn't want to be alone tonight, just him and Kreacher. "You're certain?"

"Wouldn't have offered if I wasn't." Hermione stands up, and the Muffliato falls away. She glances at the gold watch on her small wrist. "Come on. There's a steak in the refrigerator waiting to be cooked up, and Ron'll be home in half an hour. You'll help me throw together a salad, and it'll be ready by the time he's home. You can go back for your paperwork later."

"All right." Harry slides off the stool and bins what's left of his coffee. He's grateful for Hermione, and he wishes he'd been around more the past few years, instead of hiding out in Luxembourg as frequently as he could. He's missed her, and the way she knows exactly what he needs, before he even does. 

She looks back at him as she pushes the door open. "Ready?"

Christ is he ever.

They step out into clamour of the busy street.

***

There's still a faint bit of a chill hanging about in the early morning air, and Draco draws his charcoal summer wool jacket a bit more closely around him as he and Millie walk down Serle Street a brisk pace. He hadn't slept well, if he's honest. He wishes he'd taken Potter up on his offer to spend the night at Grimmauld Place. Perhaps a good athletic shag would have sent him to sleep for a few hours more than he'd had at home with his mother snoring genteelly in the next room over.

He'd finally dragged himself out of bed and gone for a run, his suit and holdall miniaturised in the pocket of his running shorts. It'd been what he needed, really, a chance to be outside, alone, just him and the music blaring through his earbuds as he'd run through Regent's Park and Soho, his trainers slapping across the dirty pavement as he made his way to Whitehall and the Ministry. No one had been in the incident room when he'd pushed the door open, not that he'd expected them at that hour, although he'd wondered if Althea might have shown up early. She's probably as nervous as he is, what with her facing down Wrightson this afternoon. 

Draco'd changed in Potter's office, almost wishing Potter would walk in on him, but he hadn't been that fortunate. He'd slipped on his jacket, straightened his tie and walked down to the Atrium Floos on his way to meet Millie, getting curious looks from the wizards and witches heading in for the morning's work. 

The sun's bright over Serle Street, and the sky's clear, and Draco's certain the day's going to heat up as it progresses, but for now he's rather enjoying the cool air against his skin. Up ahead, he can see the Tudor-era entrance to Lincoln's Inn. His stomach sinks--he wasn't been able to choke down more than a bit of toast and a sip or two of tea this morning, he'd been so bloody nervous about this appointment. His mother remarked on his lack of appetite--she worries when he doesn't eat properly--but he'd put her off, saying he was planning to pick something up in the Ministry tea shop when he got to work. He didn't tell her where he was going--he couldn't, even though he knows he ought to have--but he thinks she knew he was up to something this morning. He can hide his feelings and thoughts from many people, but not his own mother. Draco draws in a sharp breath, rolling his shoulders. He can do this. He really can.

"All right there?" Millie asks, giving him a sideways glance, and Draco nods. His calves still ache a bit from his run, and the pleasant post-run pull of his muscles are help keeping him calm with each step.

After he'd changed clothes, he'd Flooed into Hannah Abbott's office at the London School of Economics twenty minutes ago as planned, to meet Millie so they could walk together to the Inns of Court. Hannah's just taken on a post lecturing about international wizarding politics to the tiny handful of graduate students in the uni's hidden wizarding department located in a building that most Muggles assumed was always under renovation. She'd greeted him warmly on the modern hearth of her tiny book-lined office, giving him a peck on the cheek, but Millie was half-pulling him out the door already. Millie hasn't said much to Draco on their walk, for which Draco's grateful. They're on schedule, a bit early even, for their appointment at half-eight with a barrister hand-picked by Millie to see if he'll take Draco's father on as a client. Draco has no idea what to expect, but he senses it's not going to be easy to convince the man. Merlin knows, Draco wouldn't want anything to do with his bloody father if he were given the choice.

"Don't look so grim," Millie says, striding toward the brick and sandstone gate. "It's a friendly interview, not an interrogation."

Draco rolls his shoulders again and tries to smile. "Yes. And thank you for getting us this appointment. I owe you at least a good bottle of wine."

Millie tosses her curls, a quick smile crossing her face. "I'll take a crate if he accepts the case. But I'll be happy to receive it in installments." Her expression sobers. "You do realise that we have to intrigue him. It's been bloody hard to find anyone with enough curiosity to take your father on." She considers. "Or hubris, perhaps."

Draco smoothes the line of his jacket. "I'll do my best to make the case interesting, shall I?" How the bloody fuck he's going to do that, he's not a damned idea. Draco's not a song-and-dance sort. He doesn't really know how to convince someone to take his side. Case in point, the entire bloody Auror department.

Millie shakes her head. "No. Leave the talking to me, although if he addresses you, don't be rude." She turns a sharp gaze on him. "Please, Draco. This is important."

You don't need to tell me that, Draco thinks, but he's grateful for Millie's caution nonetheless. She's clearly given this a lot of thought. Draco doesn't really know where to begin, other than _My arsehole father deserves everything the WPS is going to throw at him, but we need a barrister on his side to make it look legal._ So yeah, he'd best leave the talking to Millie.

At the gatehouse, Millie gives her credentials and their host's name and is directed to one of the side wings. Entering and talking to the porter, Draco and Millie are soon brought upstairs to the barrister's chambers on the first floor. On the dark wood of the panelling, next to the door, there's a beautifully scrolled brass plate, reading _ACHILLEUS AVERY ESQ. MC._

"What happens when Muggles see that he's a Magician's Counsellor?" Draco's curious about the distinctions in a mixed magical and Muggle environment. He's known that such counsel exists, obviously, but he's never met one, even in his appearances before the Wizengamot as an Auror. The Malfoy's have always had wizarding solicitors--well, at least three generations back, that is. Draco has his suspicions about his family's claims of pureblood lineage and their purported ancestral disdain for mixing with the Muggle hoi polloi.

"This is primarily a wizarding wing," Millie says. "And I'm fairly certain it's charmed to show an entirely different plate to Muggles."

The door opens when she lifts her hand to knock, and a long-nosed and rather squinty figure peers out at them. "Miss Bulstrode, I presume." He's tall and thin, and when he swings the door wider, Draco can see that the cut of his Muggle suit isn't bespoke. There's a bit of dust on one shoulder of his jacket that he doesn't seem to be aware of. Draco suppresses the urge to brush it off.

Millie gives a little bow. "Mr Avery. It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance."

This actually surprises Draco. The wizarding world isn't so large, and he assumes Millie knows the barrister. Particularly with the last name of Avery. The family's part of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, after all, same as Draco's and Millie's. He also wonders how closely this Avery is related to Pollux Avery, one of his father's old friends. He'd been there when Draco'd taken the Mark.

"Draco Malfoy," Draco says after an uncomfortable silence when Millie elbows him. "Thank you for taking the time to see us."

"Come in, come in," Avery says, and they enter into a small, but stunning wood panelled office with a view of the green quadrangle beyond. Draco would trade anything for this view, except perhaps his Auror badge. And that was the rub, wasn't it? The private barristers have much better offices.

After they seat themselves in the worn leather chairs in front of Avery's desk, Avery folds himself into the chair behind it; twisting and contorting his lanky body to fit into the small space. At first glance, Avery seems relatively young, but Draco can see a few gray patches at Avery's temples, which comfort him strangely. Avery doesn't look to be older than forty, so he must be rather distinguished in his profession to have chambers here and to have made MC already, particularly if he's been out of the country which Draco surmises Avery must have been if he's willing to even consider taking on Draco's father.

"I presume you've read the outline I sent over regarding the case against Lucius Malfoy." Millie wastes no time in starting business. Draco loves her tenacity, and is yet again grateful to have her on his side. He'll have to think about what wine to get her, and it _will_ be a crate if this works. He knows she thinks she's joking, but he treasures her support.

Avery nods, steepling his fingers. "Yes, thank you. It was most informative."

"Sergeant Malfoy would like to engage you on behalf of the family to defend his father before the Wizengamot." Millie's jaw is set. "You'll understand, of course, why they would prefer not to use a defense barrister from within the system."

Draco blinks as Avery's sharp eyes flick to his face. He has a keen stare, and Draco sits up a bit more, squaring his shoulders and trying to appear as upstanding and non-Death Eater-y as possible. He wonders if he ought to have shown up in full Auror dress uniform instead.

"You know," Avery says, a curious lilt in his voice. "I don't think I've ever been asked to defend a case in which the son was on the Auror team against his father." He raises an eyebrow. "Much less was the arresting Auror on record."

"I assure you, it is the last place I'd hope to be," Draco can't help his tart comment, even though Millicent is glaring at him. He and Avery lock glances for a moment, and Draco thinks he catches the faint curve of a smile twitching Avery's mouth.

Avery concedes the point with a nod. "I can only imagine."

"I'm sure you read yesterday's _Prophet_ ," Millie says. "With the possibility of Hawkworth and Marchbanks' proposed legislation looming, this could be a very important case for political prejudice in matters of state." Millie folds her hands in her lap. "There could also be an argument for duress, as I'm sure you're aware."

The heavy armchair swivels, and Avery looks to the side, out towards the green quadrangle. He presses the tips of his steepled fingers against his mouth, silent for a long moment. 

Draco glances at Millie; she just shakes her head at him. 

"I can imagine," Avery says finally, "that there are a great many arguments to be made, should anyone take the case." He turns back to them. "You've piqued my interest, Ms Bulstrode, but why exactly should I take on Mr Malfoy? I'm certain if you've arrived on my doorstep, there've been others who've turned you down."

"Because you're ambitious." Millicent's clearly prepared, and Draco can only sit and watch, a bit in awe of her decisive prowess. It's seldom he gets a chance to see her legal mind at work, at least this close up. "You've just spent nine years in a legal liaison capacity with Luxembourg, so you know exactly what the sort of legislation they're asking for will mean as far as wizarding rights. You've come home to Britain, and you're wanting to make your mark on British wizarding law. What better case than a case of highest importance? The case is visible, you will not have to worry about publicity, and you may even set legal and political precedent."

"And if it goes pear-shaped?" Avery's listening carefully, and Draco can tell that Millie almost had him hooked. "If I fail to make any interesting defence or set precedent on Mr Malfoy's behalf?"

"Then you were merely a humanitarian doing his job under the law to represent even the most atrocious members of wizarding society in a fair trial of his peers. The basis of our legal system since the Magna Carta." Millie spreads out her hands. She leans forward, over the edge of Avery's desk. "And everyone focuses on Lucius Malfoy's history of wrongdoings and not on your legal record. It is truly a win-win situation, as they say."

Draco marvels at the effects of Millie's words, even on a fellow barrister. Mr Avery is shrewd, but Millie is clearly in top form. Still, his father's case is polarising, and the Avery name has already been tainted with Death Eater stink, he knows.

"Well played," Avery says. "Very well-played." He sniffs. "I'd say I'll take time to consider, but I wouldn't have invited you if I weren't interested in the case."

Millie leans back in her chair, looking pleased with herself. "Excellent. Can we sign a contract to retain you on Mr Malfoy's behalf?"

Avery reflects for a moment. "Yes. But give me a moment to get a proper one ready--this is going to go a bit beyond the usual. I'll have something ready for you this afternoon."

"A question, if you will," Draco says, and Millie and Avery both look at him, surprised. He meets their gazes evenly. "I want to be clear and frank before I sign. Your family has Death Eater ties--Pollux and William, I believe. One's in Azkaban, one's dead. The _Prophet_ will bring that up, I can guarantee you."

Millie looks as if she wants to skewer him, but Avery just nods, that small smile flitting across his face again, gone almost before Draco can register it. 

"That branch of my family tree did engage in the troubles," Avery says. He sits forward, his palms flattened against the polished, paper-strewn desktop. "My cousins were always idiots, Sergeant Malfoy, much in the same way you consider your father to be a fool, yes?"

Draco nods, his shoulders relaxing. 

"I don't give a damn what the _Prophet_ says about me," Avery continues. "I left England before the Dark Lord rose to power, and I never looked back. So, if I'm honest, part of what intrigues me about your father's case is not him, but you, Sergeant Malfoy. Because I'm rather aware of how difficult it can be to have family who do something bloody stupid." He smiles, and this time it sticks. "And the chance to leave a mark on wizarding law is most tempting as well, I must admit. So? A contract then?"

"Yes." Draco's starting to like Avery. He's an odd duck, Draco thinks, but an honest one, and that's what Draco thinks his father needs at the moment. He wants to laugh. Lucius is going to hate Avery, and that delights Draco to no end. "I'd like to engage you, Mr Avery, if you're willing."

They rise out of their seats and shake hands, and then Draco and Millie are leaving the chambers and descending the stairs into the entryway and the grassy walks beyond.

"Did we just hire a barrister to represent my arsehole father?" Draco asks as they head for the gate.

"No." Millie says, and Draco stops to look at her. " _I_ just convinced a rather good legal counsel to take on your arsehole dad's case."

To his surprise, and hers, Draco hugs Millie right there, in the middle of the quadrangle. 

"Thank you," he says gruffly, and he thinks he would cry in gratitude if he were that sort.

She gives him a quick press back, then gently disengages herself. They both look away, a bit embarrassed. Slytherins don't hug, especially not in public. What is the world coming to, Draco wonders, and he briefly wonders if Gryffindor behaviour is sexually contagious.

Nonetheless, his heart is lighter as they make their way back to Hannah's office to Floo into the Ministry. He's done what he can for his bloody father.

Lucius will have to do the rest.

***

Freddie just looks at Harry, her round, unwrinkled face calm. Waiting.

Harry shifts in his chair; the leather creaks beneath his arse. Warm morning sunlight filters through the lace curtains hanging at the window, casting filigree shadows across the gleaming wood floor. They're high enough up in the building that the light shines through the courtyard and into Freddie's small office. Harry's stayed in Parisian flats that were ground floor and even in the heat of August they were dark and gloomy. He glances over at the photographs on the wall. They're all elegant, perfectly composed botanicals in deep blacks and whites. He likes Freddie's office. It's cosy and snug with the tea kettle on the tiny hob in the corner, next to the loo. 

He wonders what's happening in the incident room right now. Harry hadn't left a note for them, telling them he'd be late. They're bloody Aurors though. He thinks they'll figure it out.

Freddie folds her hands in her lap, over the notepad her quill still hovers beside. "Harry?" Her voice is careful. Quiet. 

Merlin, but Harry thinks he'd actually like Mind Healing if it had a bit more chatting over tea about the weather and less insightful bollocks about his psyche to it. He clears his throat. "It's only nightmares," he says. "I'm used to those. Had them all the time as a kid." He tries to give her a smile, but she just keeps looking at him with those bright blue eyes of hers. "Besides, people had it worse than I did. Ron's brother died in the War. I didn't have…" 

He falls silent again, fingers picking at the pale blue crocheted throw folded over the arm of his chair. It's the same colour as the row of five empty glass vases sitting in the window behind the lace curtains, glittering in the light.

Freddie sighs. "Harry, you were traumatised, just as everyone else was. And whilst I recognise your need to downplay your trauma in regards to others', the fact remains that you underwent a very difficult experience at a young age. You faced down death--"

"I did die," Harry says before he can stop himself, and Freddie falls silent. 

"Would you like to talk about that?" she asks after a moment. 

Not really, Harry thinks. But he doesn't want to talk about any of it, does he? And yet here he is with Freddie, and he knows he needs to. Christ but it's more terrifying to sit across from her than it'd been to face down Voldemort himself. He pokes a finger through one of the holes in the crochet, sinking his finger through the swirl of yarn. "I died," he says again. "During the last battle. It was like…" He hesitates, remembering Sirius's voice when he'd asked if it would hurt, death. "It was like falling asleep. That easy." He pulls his finger out of the throw. "I don't know what else to say. I died. I had the choice to come back. I did. Even if I didn't want to."

Freddie's hiding her surprise well. Harry wonders what other mad things people have told her. He gives her a half-smile. "You'll be wanting to put me in a locked ward now, won't you?"

"Not particularly." Freddie watches him. "Why'd you come back if you didn't want to?"

Harry shrugs. "Because who else would face down Voldemort?"

"I'm sure someone else would have," Freddie says. "You weren't the only one fighting."

"It had to be me," Harry says dully. "I didn't want it to be. I wanted to go on, to be with my mum and dad, and with my godfather, and with their friends. There wasn't really anyone still back for me. Ron and Hermione had each other. Ginny would have been all right. No one needed me. Except they all did, you know?" He pushes his finger back through another hole in the throw. "I had to face him down. For them." 

The words stick in his throat. Harry wonders if any of his friends, even the ones he doesn't really keep up with much any more, like Luna and Dean and Neville and Seamus, know how much he resents them sometimes. Just because he had to come back. To help them. He tries not to; he knows it's not fair. But sometimes, late at night, or when he's had a few too many drinks, he still gets angry. Even at Ron and Hermione. 

He'll never tell them though. They've all been through so much already. His stupid strops don't mean anything.

Harry'd admitted it Jake once, when he was far too pissed for his own good. He'd regretted it immediately, begged him not to say anything. Harry wonders if he's told Hermione yet.

Freddie's quill scratches across the paper. Harry wonders what she's writing. He looks away again. 

"What about now?" Freddie asks. "Do people need you now?"

Harry thinks of Malfoy, spread out beneath him in the middle of a field of wildflowers, looking up at him with an expression on his face that twists Harry's heart, makes him hope for something more. "I…" He hesitates. "I think I need them, actually."

Freddie nods. "Should we talk about that?"

"I don't know." Harry feels uncomfortable. Exposed. He wants to wrap himself up in the crocheted throw. "I feel responsible for people still. But it's not like before. Not entirely. I can't save everyone." He just wants to save one. 

The clock on the wall ticks softly, the hand clicking forward another minute. Harry's late for work, but he doesn't care. His team will figure out what to do without him. He knows that. He shifts again in the chair. 

"Do you resent having to come back?" Freddie's voice is soft. 

Harry looks up at her. No one's ever asked him that directly before, and it unsettles him, that Freddie can read him so clearly. He takes a deep breath, considers lying. 

To his surprise, he doesn't want to.

"Sometimes," Harry says. "I was ready. When I walked into the forest that night, I didn't expect to come back out again. I didn't want to. I'd been fighting for so long." His throat closes up on him; he has to look away. Those feelings shudder through him again. The hope that once he was done it'd be done. That he'd have the chance to rest, to put down the burden of being Harry Potter. That he could just be Harry, James and Lily's boy, and float away into the mist. "Hermione says I was lucky."

Freddie's eyes are sympathetic. "Do you think you were?"

"I try to tell myself I was."

"That's not the same thing," Freddie says.

Harry just looks at her. He feels fragile. Uncertain. "I know." 

Freddie nods, and her quill moves across the notepad again. "You're still anxious about that night."

"Sometimes." Harry twists his hands together, staring down at his thick fingers. His nails are cropped close to the quick; he's a hangnail on his thumb. He wants to bite it off, but that'd be rude, he thinks. Instead he rubs a finger over it, trying to push it back down. "My nightmare was about another night though. When I lost my godfather. He was killed in front of me." His throat hurts again. "I wasn't even sixteen yet."

There's a soft intake of breath from Freddie, but when he looks up, her face is calm. "You've gone through a lot of loss in your life."

"Yeah," Harry says, and he clenches his hands together. "My mum and dad. My godfather. Their best friend. Dumbledore." He stops, a realisation hitting him. "I saw almost all of them killed in front of me. Jesus."

"And if you, as an Auror, encountered an adolescent on a case who'd seen just one person they cared about murdered, what would your reaction be?" Freddie leans forward in her chair. 

Harry's heart pounds against his chest. "Tell them it wasn't their fault. Hold them, for fuck's sake. Find someone to help them because no one should have to see that--" His voice cracks. 

"Tell yourself that," Freddie says gently. "None of those deaths are your fault--"

"My mum and dad." Harry can barely get the words out. "Voldemort came after them because of me--"

"It wasn't your fault, Harry." Freddie's voice rings out clear in the room, and Harry feels his heart start to crumple, those shored-up defences he's kept in place for years sagging, that wall of self-blame. It's not that he hasn't heard the same sentiment from Hermione or Ron or the Weasleys as a whole, but there's something about hearing it from someone who wasn't there, who didn't know him then, who has no reason to lie to him to make him feel better. 

He tries to speak, but he can't. He presses a trembling knuckle to his mouth. 

"Breathe," Freddie says.

Harry does. Slow and even. The shaking stops, and he can look at her. "It feels like it was," he says finally. 

"C'est de la merde." Freddie's blunt words make Harry laugh. Almost. "What something feels like doesn't mean that's what it is. This Dark Lord of yours." She flutters her fingers in the air. "This Voldemort. He's the one responsible for taking those lives. His followers as well. Not you. You didn't kill your parents."

"I know," Harry says. "But…" He trails off. It's hard to explain, he thinks. 

"No." Freddie shakes her head. "This is something you must first understand before we go further. You, Monsieur Potter, are not responsible for the ills of the world. Nor for anyone else's actions other than your own." She gives him a kind look. "You have to learn to let go of that as you can. This trauma of yours, this pain inside, it comes from that feeling. You won't be healed from it overnight. Perhaps not ever, not entirely. Things were done to you. Around you. But you were not the catalyst. This Voldemort? He was. He set it all in motion. You were just unlucky enough to be in his way."

Harry's silent for a long moment. "I wish I could believe that," he says, his throat tight. The idea that he could feels so distant. And yet he longs for it. 

"You will." Freddie beams at him. "One day." She glances at the clock. "We're nearly done for today. I'm proud of you, monsieur. This is difficult work." She stands and walks over to a cabinet, rummaging in it. She pulls out a phial and hands it to Harry. "This is for your nightmares. One drop in a glass of water if they wake you up. It'll help you sleep, but I would warn you to be careful with the dosage. It won't hurt you, but I'd rather you not become reliant on it for sleeping. So I'll also ask you to take some time to breathe before bed each night. Fill your lungs up and let it out slowly. It'll help with any anxiety and tension. No coffee or tea after dinner either, and keep your drinking to a minimum, if you can. We want uninterrupted sleep as much as possible, oui?"

"Thank you." Harry's fingers curl around the phial. The brown glass is cool and smooth against his fingers. He reaches for his jacket and pushes himself out of the chair. "Next week?"

"I'm available at your convenience," Freddie says. She folds her notepad, putting it down on the desk in the corner.

Harry stops at the door. He looks back at her. "Also, I know this goes without saying, but I'm an Auror, and the things I say here--"

"Of course." Freddie gives him a small smile. "I'm licensed to work with Aurors across Europe, Harry. I'm even on the approved list for your Ministry, if you'd care to check. What you say in this room stays in this room. I'm willing to make a vow on that." She holds out her hand, and Harry clasps it. Freddie flicks her wand at their wrists and a coil of pale pink light wraps around them once, then twice. "All confidences in this office will remain confidences, I solemnly swear this day to Inspector Harry James Potter of the British Auror force." The light sinks into their skin with a sharp prickle. "Better?"

"Yes." Harry gives her a real smile this time. "Thanks, Freddie." 

"Be well, monsieur," Freddie says. "If you need me, I'm only an owl away."

Harry closes the door of her office behind him. As he clatters down the stairs, he doesn't know what to feel. Relieved, uncertain, ashamed, guilty, angry. All of those emotions are twisting and turning in his gut. His heart feels like it's wrapped in barbed wire.

He steps out into the courtyard, pulling his jacket on. He hasn't time for any of that now. There's work to be done. He closes his eyes for a moment, pushing the feelings away. 

It almost works. 

He looks up at Freddie's window, catching a glimpse of her pale face behind the lace curtains. Harry lifts his hand in farewell. The curtains twitch, and then her fingers move against the glass.

Christ, but Harry hopes this is all worth it in the end.

He Apparates away.

***

"Do you think the guv's all right?" Pansy asks Draco, who's poking through a copy of reports from the ICW with official seals and warnings, scrawling notes on a parchment in the process.

It's quarter after ten already, and they usually have team meeting by half nine. Pansy's finished her coffee, Blaise is on his second mug, and Althea's well into her own notes in the corner. She's still acting like a guest, Pansy notes, unpacking only a few things from her satchel at a time, and then repacking. It's like she doesn't believe she's staying.

Then again, with the current political situation, she might not be staying. Merlin knows how that's all going to turn out. Pansy's a bit uneasy, although she's grateful she and her parents won't be on a list any time soon. The Parkinsons were more middlemen than leaders, never Marked, never part of anyone's inner circle, and she's never been more pleased to be relatively unimportant.

"Why would you think I know?" Draco arches an eyebrow, nostrils flaring. He looks tired but more than a bit irritable, so Pansy supposes he really hasn't seen Potter since yesterday. There's no shagged out bliss on that face, she's certain.

She rolls her eyes at him, but takes the point, eyes flicking over to Althea, who's buried in a testimony log, by the looks of it.

"Did you and Millie find any joy this morning?" Pansy changes tack. Draco had seemed a bit subdued when he'd come in this morning, and she's given him his space. In all honesty, she wants to be back in the lab, but she's here whittling away time, waiting for a guv who may have just called in sick. Except his best reason for skivving off is sitting in front of her, frowning at a document that's in German. Pansy can just make out Aurorbehörde Niedersachsen.

"Mmmm. Yeah." Draco's biting his lip and not listening. "Does _Spinner_ mean nutter? In German, I mean. The translation spell's giving me 'silk moth.'"

"Yeah," Blaise nods and lowers the _Prophet_ to look over from his desk. He has work spread out on his blotter, but Pansy can see he's reading the league tables instead. He has better German than any of them due to his mother's insistence on his learning modern languages, not just the Latin and Greek needed for classical British spellwork. He also speaks Italian, a bit of French, a few words of Urdu from Shah--Pansy suspects some of them are naughty, knowing the two of them--and Flemish curses from an ex-girlfriend, as Pansy recalls. For all she knows, he might have taken up Czech since their visit to Prague. It would be very like him. He's a particular magnet for slang due to his love of conversation and gossiping.

"Guess this report isn't credible, then." Draco sighs, and leafs over. "They saw Dolohov at a Muggle building materials shop purchasing chipboard."

Blaise laughs. "What was he going to do, build himself an addition on Azkaban?"

Draco smiles too, and Pansy's heart lifts a little. If she's honest, she's most worried about him right now. "Yeah, right off of my uncle's cell, I'm sure," he says. "Like a little treehouse."

Althea looks up from her papers. Pansy notices immediately that she doesn't look too steady. "Who's building a treehouse?"

Pansy gives her a careful smile. "We're taking the piss. It's a bad report on Dolohov from Lower Saxony."

Althea nods, sticking her nose back into her reading immediately. Pansy remembers belatedly that she's due to go up against her guv today. So that's why she's being so quiet. She frowns. These cases are dragging on and nerves are fraying left and right. It's all too personal. 

Pansy likes her work to stay objective and preferably not moving. Evidence, lab work, processing, and documentation are all well and good. It's the sticky, human connections part that's hard. And the team are connected on all sides to the cases they were building, more than usual. She wonders that they can even pursue them, but really, who else can? Most departments have ties to someone potentially implicated, or are covering for the gap in staffing, particularly at Azkaban.

Finally, at twenty past ten by the clock on the wall, Potter comes through the door, satchel swinging. He's carrying a paper cup from the teashop and obviously in a hurry. The look on his face is, well. Pansy has to think for a moment. He looks wounded and angry, she decides, and resolves to escape to the emotionless tedium of the lab as soon as she can.

"There you are, guv!" Pansy's voice is a bit hollow-cheerful, but someone needs to say it. Everyone else looks up. Draco's the last to set down his work, she notices.

"Sorry. I had a meeting." Potter's not looking directly at her, so yeah. Pansy's not buying that it was a regular meeting. "Right," Potter continues, setting his cup down on Draco's desk and letting his satchel drop. "Where are we today?"

"Bangladesh destroyed New Zealand in the qualifying round." Blaise smirks, and folds his paper. There's a terrible picture on the front of the _Prophet_. It looks like an old photo of a Mordsmordre to Pansy. Blaise frowns, then turns it over. "Also Selwyn's sister is going to come in tomorrow for an interview."

Potter nods. "That's good, Zabini. The second Hopkirk interview with Shafiq is scheduled for Friday morning, as is Selwyn's himself--Malfoy, I'll want you on point for him--so, Zabini, you can take Selwyn's sister's testimony after you sit down with Hopkirk again. Malfoy, any news?"

Draco sighs audibly, looking up at Potter, then looking away. "Every crackpot in Europe has evidently seen Dolohov. He's been camping in Sweden and buying building materials in Germany."

"Nice life he's got there," Potter comments. His face is too open to Malfoy, Pansy thinks. She watches Draco, wondering if he even realises how Potter's expression shifts when he looks at him.

Probably not, she decides, and wonders whether she wants to be the bearer of that news.

"Parkinson?" Pansy realises belatedly that Potter is addressing her now.

"Oh, the usual," she says, with a polite smile. "Nothing too interesting, most of the reports I've been working on are certified by Jonesy and down with WPS now. I'm still processing a few bits and bobs, but I don't really expect to find anything of substance."

Potter shoves his hands in his pockets, his braces flashing red against the white of his shirt. "Whitaker, are you preparing for this afternoon?"

Althea looks up, her face pale but determined. "Yeah. I'm reviewing some of Wrightson's earlier cases this year, trying to find gaps in his timeline and analyse his interviewing style."

"Good initiative," Potter praises her warmly, and Draco and Blaise both scowl. Pansy shakes her head. This team. Everyone's like a dog with a goddamned bone when the guv pats them on the head. Including herself. She doesn't quite understand the power Potter has over all of them, and it annoys her sometimes. There are moments she wishes she could go back to thinking him the twat he was in school instead of liking him, at least a little, now.

"Wouldn't you have been there when Wrightson was interviewing?" Blaise's drawl is not particularly kind, and Pansy wants to kick his shin but he's too far away. She settles on frowning meaningfully. She feels sorry for Althea, and she doesn't care if it puts her at odds sometimes with Draco and Blaise. Althea can be a bitch, but so can Pansy, and she knows what it's like around the boys on this force. Just standing up for yourself can get you called a goddamned bint--or worse--if you're not careful. Whereas you're praised for it, if you've got a sodding prick.

Althea answers Blaise's aside openly. "I mean, he usually took Maxie in, so I don't really know what he's like in a room. I've done a few interviews with him, but really nothing important."

And isn't that telling, Pansy thinks. She scowls at Blaise, directing her annoyance at men in the Ministry in general at him. He throws up his hands.

"What?" Blaise asks, and Pansy just narrows her eyes.

"It'll make it more effective this afternoon," Potter says to Althea, ignoring both Pansy and Blaise. "Since he hasn't seen you a lot in interviewing. And Hermione will back you up when you need it. You both did really well." He pauses, and Pansy knows he was about to say, when you questioned Lucius Malfoy. Draco looks away, and there is a look of longing on Potter's face. Briefly, and Pansy is grateful it's in her and Draco's direction and not the other way. Circe, but the two of them are going to get caught out by Althea if they don't watch themselves. Her eyes flick towards Althea; Potter catches the look, his face flushing.

"Er, did you and Millie manage to engage--" Potter's careful, more guarded.

Draco takes on a pinched, energetic quality which is his frequent defence when he's trying to hide something, as Pansy knows from years of experience. "Yes, in fact. Millie convinced one Achilleus Avery to take on my father's case."

"Avery," Blaise and Pansy say in unison, and Althea blinks impassively from the corner.

Draco squares his shoulders. "Yes, Avery. Of that family. But not closely related to the Death Eating wankers, or so he says. He's been in Luxembourg working on wizarding rights and lawful treatment, according to Millie."

Pansy's a little dubious. "You're certain, love?"

"I trust Millie," Draco says, a stubborn tinge to his voice. Pansy knows better than to argue.

Potter sighs, running a hand through his hair. It sticks up a little. "Well, that sounds promising if Millie likes him. I don't recognise the name, but I didn't work closely with legal." He turns to Blaise. "How bad is the _Prophet_?"

Pansy notices Potter really doesn't look focussed. Something or someone from his meeting must have knocked him off balance. Distracted him somehow. He doesn't seem like their usual guv; he's jumpy and he keeps crossing his arms across his chest as if he's uncomfortable. Or unhappy. She wonders what he was doing, but Draco's face is blank and there's not much else she would know. Durant and Potter have been circling each other like scalded cats, barely able to be in the same room, so it can't be that.

"Not too awful," Blaise lifts it up and Potter takes it, almost recoiling from the image on the front. 

Potter gathers himself and drops it. "Christ, that's unsightly."

"Orla is pulling in eyewitnesses and rehashing old muck," Blaise says, his voice dismissive. "It's enough to get people's knickers in a twist, but there's very little information right now."

"Speaking of," Potter smoothes a reflexive hand over his forehead. "The testimony with Hopkirk is eyes-only to this team, Robards, and the Unspeakables around Hermione. Be careful with the information until WPS have built their case. It could cause panic."

Pansy nods solemnly. Blaise had mentioned it was bad yesterday afternoon, and she can only imagine what a field day the Prophet would have with the information that they were trying to raise Voldemort.

"All right. Keep on your toes," Potter says. "And I think I hear Margaret in the hall, so I'm going to go for a pasty. You're welcome to join me."

Pansy glances around the room, meeting Blaise's eyes. He quirks an eyebrow at her and they both nod. She stands, gathering her things. She's grateful she can escape to her lab, at least for a little while.

Blaise catches her arm before she reaches the door. "Something's up with him," he murmurs, looking towards Potter, who's rummaging in his satchel for coins. 

"I know." Pansy's gaze falls on Draco. "They haven't argued?"

"Not that I know of." Blaise keeps his voice low. "Nothing more to say, really. But it's not a usual day, now is it?"

That's what worries Pansy. 

Blaise steps back. "Buy me a tea, guv? Only I left my wallet on my dresser."

"Liar," Potter says, but he laughs, and Pansy feels the tension in her shoulders slip away.

Maybe she's just being paranoid, she thinks. Or too protective of Draco. 

Still, she can't help but feel a twinge of worry when Draco's gaze follows Potter out the door. She doesn't know what's going on and she's not certain she wants to. 

Not yet at least. 

With a sigh, she slips out of the incident room, headed for the relative peace and quiet of her lab. She'll always have that, she thinks.

Or at least she hopes she will.

***

At quarter-past two, Harry and Whitaker meet Hermione outside of Wrightson's interview room. His disquiet from his morning's session with Freddie has eased; being busy with work has helped. It's probably not what Freddie would have wanted, but he needs the distraction, the space away from the thoughts and turmoil twisting beneath the surface of his mind, threatening to spill over. He can't let them. He won't. He needs to focus. Needs to work. The rest of it he'll look at later, when he's home alone with a bottle of firewhisky to comfort him and the shadows of Grimmauld Place to hide him.

Perhaps even from himself.

"Ready for this?" Hermione asks Whitaker, and she nods. Whitaker looks a bit pale, but Harry thinks once she gets in the room she'll be fine. She's a good Auror, well-trained, even if some of that is due to the man sitting behind the door. "Right then. I'll take the lead and you'll back me up the way we did with Lucius Malfoy. Harry will be observing, but if you need to tag him in for a bit, that's fine."

Something about Hermione's irking Harry. He looks away. It's just the feelings from this morning. The resentment he doesn't want to acknowledge pushing its way up. He takes a slow breath and shoves it back down. This is his best friend. He loves her. Would die for her.

He already has.

Whitaker nods again. "I'd rather not if I can help it," she says. "Marcus'll see that as weakness." 

And that's something she doesn't want to show. Harry understands. He touches Whitaker's elbow. "You'll be all right. Just expect him to be a bit of a shit."

"I do." Whitaker takes a steadying breath. "He was a shit before he was arrested. Shall we?" She opens the door. 

Hermione starts to follow her, but she glances back at Harry. "Are you okay?" she mouths, and Harry shrugs. That roil of resentment starts to fade away. He'd told her and Ron last night at dinner that he was going to the Mind Healer this morning. To be honest, he'd been a bit surprised at how supportive they'd been. Especially Ron, who'd never been of the talk-things-out mindset like Hermione. Harry'd expected Ron to ridicule his decision, but instead Ron'd admitted to seeing one himself the year after Fred had been killed. Even Hermione hadn't known. Ron'd just taken a swig of his beer and said calmly, _I wasn't going to make either of you deal with me back then, not with what you both were going through, so I paid someone. It helped._ Harry'd felt a bit ashamed at the moment, for not being there for Ron, but he reckons Freddie would chide him about that now.

"I'm fine," Harry says, even though he's not certain he is. But he thinks he will be, and maybe that's enough for now. 

Hermione looks as if she wants to say something else, but then Whitaker says from in the interview room, "Jesus, Marcus, what have they done to you?" Her voice quavers just a bit.

Harry puts his hand on Hermione's arm before she can interrupt. He wants to see if Whitaker can build this moment.

Whitaker's still standing as Harry and Hermione step into the room. Her face is horrified as she takes in Wrightson's bruised and battered cheek. 

"What the fuck is she doing in here?" Wrightson asks Harry, his mouth twisted in a snarl. "Get her out."

"Sergeant Whitaker's part of this interview," Harry says calmly. He lets Hermione take the other seat at the table. She draws Whitaker down beside her. Harry leans against the door jamb. "I'm just here for moral support."

The look Wrightson gives him is vicious. Harry keeps his face calm, raises an eyebrow as he crosses his arms over his chest. "You fucker," Wrightson says. 

"Language, Inspector Wrightson," Hermione says, setting the recording spell. "Unspeakable Hermione Granger of the British Department of Mysteries and Sergeant Althea Whitaker of the London Auror force interviewing Marcus Brian Wrightson, an Inspector of the London Auror force, at two-nineteen p.m. on the twenty-ninth of June, two thousand and six. Inspector Harry Potter of the Auror force is observing. As always, Mr Wrightson, you remain under caution, and as per your status as an Auror, you have the right to be questioned by an officer of your own rank or one rank higher, should you wish, as well as to engage legal representation.” She looks up at him. "Refused still."

"No bloody comment is all you'll get from me," Wrightson snaps at her. He's holding his shoulder oddly, Harry realises, as if he's been thrown against a wall. Goddamn it. Harry really doesn't want to have to go to Robards about his own men, but he thinks he just might. 

Whitaker's still staring at her former SIO. "Marcus," she says quietly, and Wrightson turns his angry look at her.

"Don't start with me," Wrightson says, his voice low. "I wouldn't fucking be here if it weren't for you."

And that makes Whitaker flinch as surely as if he'd struck her in the face. Harry wants to intervene, but he holds himself back. Whitaker needs to be able to fight this one, he thinks. Whether or not she realises it at the moment. 

"Inspector Wrightson," Hermione says, shuffling through her notes. "I shan't bother to rehash our previous interview from earlier this week. But I do want you to know that new information about your involvement in James Selwyn's breakout from Azkaban has come to light." 

"No comment," Wrightson says, folding his hands on the table in front of him. His wrists are still bound to the table with an Incarcerous. He looks over to Harry, defiant. He knows why Harry brought Whitaker in today. Harry just gives him a slow, easy smile. After this morning, it feels bloody relaxing to torment Marcus sodding Wrightson.

"Marcus," Whitaker says again, and Wrightson's gaze flicks towards her. 

"No fucking comment," he says again, his voice harsher, and Whitaker leans back in her chair, her mouth a thin, angry line. Good, Harry thinks. Let that temper of yours show, Althea. Turn it on Wrightson the way you did Malfoy. 

Hermione pulls out a sheaf of parchments. It's Zabini's interview with Mafalda Hopkirk from yesterday, Harry knows. He owes Zabini a pint for that. Damn good interviewing. "The thing is," Hermione says, "we have a witness who says that she was responsible for transferring money into your Gringotts account. You know. That two hundred and fifty Galleons you received every few weeks at the beginning of this year?"

Wrightson's jaw tenses. "No--"

"No comment, yes we know." Hermione sets the parchments down. "But again, you're doing yourself no favours, Inspector. We know the circumstances, and we know what the other witness is saying. So we don't really need your testimony now, do we?"

"Don't act as if you're doing me a favour, girl." Wrightson leans forward, his elbows on the table. "I don't have to say a damned thing to any of you."

Harry watches as Whitaker's shoulders straighten. He holds his breath. 

"You're being a fool, Marcus," Whitaker says, and her voice doesn't waver this time. "The amount of evidence we have against you, including my own testimony? Circe, man. Talk to us. Let me help you."

Wrightson looks away. "No comment."

Hermione and Whitaker exchange a long look, then Whitaker nods. Harry knows they'd talked about the interview at length yesterday. He assumes they've made plans for what to do if Wrightson stonewalled them like this. They work well together, the two of them. Harry hopes Hermione doesn't try to poach Whitaker from his team; he doesn't want to have words with her over it. Mainly because she'll eat him alive if they do. 

"Hopkirk says there's a group of Death Eaters operating out of Azkaban," Whitaker says. "She says you were paid money--which we have records of--to help James Selwyn go in and out of Azkaban. You admitted to me yourself that you weren't unsympathetic to the Death Eaters--"

"I'm not a bloody Death Eater," Wrightson says. His mouth's tight. "Agreeing with some of them that perhaps our current political system isn't working doesn't mean I've swallowed their ideology."

Harry bites the inside of his lip to keep from smiling. Whitaker's got more than a _no comment_ from the bastard. He knew she'd get beneath Wrightson's skin. He's a pompous bastard at the best of times. Harry can't imagine he'd want his protégé to see him like this, whatever ill will's built up between them at the moment. 

"But you're still helping them," Whitaker says. "The same men who killed my mother."

A look flits across Wrightson's face. Harry can't quite place it. Regret, perhaps. A bit of anger. "It's not like that," Wrightson says. 

"Then explain it to me, Marcus." Whitaker's hands are clasped on the table. She leans forward. Hermione glances over at Harry, and he nods. "Tell me how it's not the same, because from where I'm sitting, it looks like my SIO, the man I trusted with my fucking life, the man I looked up to, is being paid off by the same men who murdered my mum nine years ago."

Wrightson glances away from her. His eye's nearly swollen shut now, the skin around it yellow-bruised and puffy. He swallows, the line of his throat working. 

Hermione pulls a piece of parchment from the file. She holds it, not laying it down yet on the table. "These Death Eaters reportedly want to bring Voldemort back."

That makes Wrightson look back over, his surprise obvious. "What?"

Interesting, Harry thinks. "You didn't know that?" he asks from the door. 

"No." Wrightson glances between them all, and they've broken past his defences, Harry realises. He wants to crow. "I wouldn't do that. It's bloody madness, and I was never told--" Wrightson breaks off, realising what he'd just admitted. 

Disappointment shifts across Whitaker's face before she schools it. Harry feels for her. He knows there had to be a part of her that had hoped she was wrong, that had wanted Wrightson to be set up the way he claimed to be. "What were you told, Marcus?" she asks. 

"No comment," Wrightson says, but even Harry can hear the reluctance in his voice. 

Whitaker just looks at him, waiting. They hold each other's gazes for a long moment, then Wrightson's shoulders slump. 

"It was just about the fucking Dementors, that's all I knew," Wrightson says finally. "Selwyn wanted to get out to do something with that weed of theirs. The one they feed the Dementors--"

"The Soul Grass," Hermione says. "They don't feed it to them. They create them with it."

Wrightson rubs a thumb along the edge of the table. "I don't know about that. I don't even know what it's called. I never paid attention to any of that shite. I just know they wanted to create some sort of issue with the Dementors. Make more of them or something, so yeah, I guess if that's what you're saying it's for. I never understood why, but I didn't care."

"They were paying you." Whitaker watches him. "And you needed the money."

"Who doesn't?" Wrightson sinks back in his chair. He doesn't look at her. "But yes. I like the horses. I'd placed a few inadvisable wagers down Ladbrokes, and the extra dosh helped." He looks broken, defeated. "Cliche, but sodding true."

Harry believes him. He's seen Wrightson's financials. It matches up. 

"Do you know what this is?" Hermione drops the parchment in her hands on the table in front of Wrightson. It's a sketch of the Resurrection Stone, enlarged from the Enochian notebook. 

Wrightson studies it, then shakes his head. "No. Why?"

Hermione raises an eyebrow. "You've never come across it?" 

"No." Wrightson meets Hermione's gaze, then she turns and glances at Harry. 

"It's a Resurrection Stone," Harry says. He pushes himself off the door jamb and walks over. "Like the Peverell tale. You know. Death gave it to one of the brothers."

"That's a children's story," Wrightson says, with a scornful look Harry's way. "A myth. Nothing else."

Harry shoves his hands in his pockets and walks around behind Wrightson. "It's actually true. There is a Resurrection Stone. I had it once, and I lost it, and now it looks as if Antonin Dolohov may have found it again."

"Or made one of his own," Hermione adds. "If a Philosopher's Stone can be made, so can a Resurrection Stone."

"True," Harry admits. "But the funny thing is, Wrightson, that it happened to be in one of our evidence boxes before it went to your team, and then it disappeared from there." He glances at Whitaker. "Sergeant, did you see it?"

Whitaker shakes her head. "No, guv." Wrightson flinches at her use of the term towards Harry; she doesn't look away from him. "But you would have had the opportunity to take it, sir."

"I've never seen that." Wrightson pushes the paper away. "I think you're trying to pin shit on me now that has nothing to do with anything I've been charged with." He glares at Harry. "I'll admit to the collaboration with Selwyn, but nothing else. Do I make myself clear?"

Harry looks over Wrightson's head to Whitaker. "Sergeant?"

"Then who recruited you, Marcus?" Whitaker asks. "To help Selwyn." 

Wrightson's jaw works. He doesn't say anything for a moment, then he bites his lip. "I don't know."

"What the fuck do you mean?" Hermione's tucking the drawing of the Resurrection Stone away. "Either you do or you don't."

"It was done by owl at first," Wrightson says. "It came to my house. One of those owls you can rent, so no, before you ask, I couldn't bloody well trace it or recognise it. There was a note with a copy of my Ladbrokes receipts, telling me I could earn some of that money back if I came to Azkaban for an hour or two that week. I wasn't going to go, but I was curious."

Harry settles against the wall. "And?"

Wrightson licks his lip. "Hopkirk met me there. She explained it to me, gave me a phial of Polyjuice. I went to see Rodolphus Lestrange, and we switched places for an hour, hour and a half. It was easy money."

"And you didn't wonder what fucking Death Eaters were doing, out of Azkaban?" Whitaker's anger bubbles up. "Are you bloody mad, Marcus?"

Wrightson doesn't say anything. There's no way to defend himself, Harry thinks. It was a stupid choice, and he wonders if Wrightson would go back and change it if he could. 

"Jesus," Whitaker says. She rubs a hand over her face. "So you think it was Hopkirk who recruited you."

"I don't know," Wrightson admits. "The first note wasn't in her handwriting. I got to know it later. But I also thought it might have been disguised, so i suppose it could have been anyone."

"Even her," Hermione says. 

Wrightson shrugs. He looks at Harry. "That's all I'm going to tell you without a solicitor present."

Harry'd been wondering when Wrightson would ask for one. What they've got from him today would be enough to put him in Azkaban for a while, legal counsel or not, and Wrightson knows it. "Fair enough." He looks at Hermione. "End it then."

"Interview terminated," Hermione says, and the recording spell stops. Hermione and Whitaker stand.

"Althea," Wrightson says, and she looks down at him. "I was an idiot. I'm sorry. You're a good Auror and you deserved a better SIO."

"Don't worry," Whitaker says to Wrightson. "I think I've found one." She nods to Harry. "I'm done here, guv." She turns on her heel and strides out, Hermione following her.

Wrightson looks at Harry. "Keep her safe, Potter."

"I will," Harry says. Or he'll do his best at least. He's not certain he can keep Whitaker from doing whatever she wants. Safe or not. 

Harry pulls the door shut behind him. Whitaker's leaning against the wall, Hermione by her side, murmuring something to her that Whitaker nods at. 

"Oi," Harry says, and Whitaker looks up at him. "I'll buy you a pint later. You deserve it."

A small smile curves Whitaker's thin lips. "Sure that's a good idea, guv? Won't the others get jealous?"

"Hell, after today," Harry says, "I'll buy you all a bloody round." He glances at Hermione. "Want to join us down the Leaky?"

Hermione shakes her head. "Too much paperwork to catch up on," she says. She looks over at Whitaker. "I'll put in the request for a transcript of the interview." She turns to Harry. "We'll want to tackle Selwyn tomorrow morning, yeah?"

"Early, I'd say. His sister's coming in at half-eleven, and Zabini's doing Hopkirk at ten, so we'll need you or one of your team until lunch." Harry rubs the back of his neck. "I sent Selwyn's solicitor the notice earlier today. I asked for a nine a.m. interview, which I expect we'll get. If you don't object, I'm giving Whitaker break from interviewing and putting Malfoy on him."

"Fine by me," Hermione says. She tucks her file jacket beneath her arm. "I need to report back in to Croaker. I'll meet you back here tomorrow."

Harry watches her walk away before glancing over at Whitaker. "I'm serious about that pint."

"After work," Whitaker says, and they both start back down the hall towards the incident room. "I think…" She hesitates, then says, "I think I might need a little bit of time to pull myself back together before I see the others."

"Not a bad idea." Harry stops, puts his hand on her arm. "You're good in the interview room, I have to say. You should be proud of yourself." 

"Thanks, guv." Whitaker gives him a faint smile. "Doesn't really feel that way, though, does it?"

Harry knows what she means. "No," he says. "It doesn't. But sometimes the best work you do feels the worst. And you did really well."

Watching her narrow back disappear down the hallway, Harry thinks about this and his own situation and the meeting with Freddie this morning. Christ, but he needs a walk himself before going back into the others. Or something.

Sometimes he thinks Malfoy has the right of it with his running. 

Harry looks down at his watch. He still has time to Floo over to the training centre. Maybe get a round or two of duelling in with Dawlish if he's free. He bounces on the balls of his feet, his body responding immediately to the idea. 

Fuck it, Harry thinks, his feet already taking him down the hallway, away from the incident room. The paperwork sitting on his desk can wait.

***

The Leaky's crowded after work, but Harry manages to wrangle a table in the corner from a group of lads out of Broom Regulatory Control who're finishing up their pints and would like nothing better than to do the Saviour of the Wizarding World a solid. Harry usually hates that a smile and a jolly word from him opens doors, but fuck it, this is one he'll take since he's not keen on standing up at the bar to down his drink. His whole body's still pleasantly aching from sparring with Dawlish for almost an hour until he was sweaty and breathless, his mind brilliantly numb.

Harry'd say it was almost better than sex, but nothing compares to that. Not with Malfoy beneath him. Or on top of him. Or between his bloody legs.

"I'll buy the first round," Malfoy says, and Harry follows him to the bar as the others crowd around the table, staking their claim before the Ludicrous Patents Office can descend.

Euphemia Rowle looks put out, but Harry doesn't give a damn. He just nods and smiles as he and Malfoy brush past her. She rolls her eyes. 

"Twat," she says, and Malfoy stops, nearly causing Harry to run into him. 

Malfoy looks back at her. "What the fuck did you just--"

"Don't," Harry says, and he pushes Malfoy forward. "Leave it be."

"Euphemia Rowle is a sodding cow," Malfoy says, and he's just loud enough for Rowle to hear him. She turns a glare their way that would cause a lesser man to falter, but Malfoy just flicks two fingers her way. Harry doesn't know whether to laugh or chide him. He'd like to snog him right here in the middle of the bloody pub, but that would be career suicide for the both of them. 

So instead he settles for giving Malfoy a warm look, his hand brushing Malfoy's hip as he presses him forward through the throng towards the bar. "Thanks for the defence."

Malfoy just sniffs. "She's an old wretch who ought to know better," he says quietly. "Her whole bloody family's riddled with Death Eaters, as much as she'd like to brush them beneath the carpet. The last person she ought to be annoying is you, particularly in the current political climate." An unhappy scowl crosses his face, and he glances away from Harry.

"You know I'm going to do what I can about that." Harry hates seeing Malfoy worry, even though he knows it's inevitable. 

"Doesn't mean you'll be able to stop it." Malfoy pushes his way past a group of laughing witches, digging in his pockets for his wallet. He pulls it out and drops three Galleons on the bar. They clank and rattle against the scarred wood. "Five pints, Tom, if you will."

Tom nods and scrapes the coins into his hand, tossing them into the till and handing Malfoy two Kuts and a Sickle before reaching for glasses. The tea towel over his shoulder was once white; it's now yellow and stained with things Harry'd rather not consider.

Harry leans against the bar. "So this Achilleus Avery. You like him for your dad?"

Malfoy glances over at him. "You sound as if I'm setting them up on a date," he says, amusement in his voice. "But yes. I think he'll do. Whether or not my father cooperates is up to him, I suppose."

"You think he will?" Harry takes the first two pints Tom Levitates over to them, balancing them both in one hand. One wobbles, but Harry murmurs a stablising spell beneath his breath and it settles. 

"I don't know." Malfoy catches the third. "My father can be obstinate just for the joy of it at times. But I think he'd rather not spend time in Azkaban, so he'll try." 

The fourth pint comes over; Harry stops it with his palm. "You know he's going to end up there."

Malfoy shrugs. "I expect so, yes." His hair falls across one cheek, hiding his face for a moment as he leans in to pick the last pint up from Tom. "Thanks," he says, and Tom just grunts and turns to the next patron. Malfoy looks back at Harry. "But what I expect and what my father thinks ought to happen are at opposite ends of the spectrum."

"Fair point," Harry says. He follows Malfoy back to the table, watching the way Malfoy's long, slender body moves through the crowd, his trousers cupping each shift of his arse. Fuck, but Harry wants to feel those firm cheeks beneath his hands again, holding Malfoy close whilst Malfoy pounds that gorgeous prick of his into Harry's arse. His own cock starts to fatten, just thinking about it, and Harry can feel his cheeks warm as he sets the pints down on the table, one in front of Parkinson, another in front of Whitaker, keeping one for himself. He slides onto the stool closest to Malfoy. 

"Cheers," Malfoy says, raising his glass, and they all follow suit, clinking together. Malfoy looks over at Whitaker. "Particularly to Althea for cracking that bastard Wrightson." His tone's a bit grudging, but Harry knows Malfoy well enough to recognise that he's being sincere. 

"Hear, hear," Parkinson says, and the smile she gives Whitaker is genuine. "Well done, you."

Whitaker's face flushes, and she looks unsettled. "It was mostly Granger."

"Bollocks," Harry says over the rim of his pint. "You put him on his back foot. Hermione would have had no joy without you."

"Thanks." Whitaker rubs the back of her neck, just beneath the tight twist of hair at her nape. "But it was bloody awful," she says. "You know. Going after your guv."

"I don't know," Zabini says. "Sometimes I daydream about it with Potter."

Harry flips two fingers at him amidst the laughter from Parkinson and Malfoy. "Fuck off, you." Even Whitaker's mouth is twitching a bit at the corners. "The shite I take from you lot. Honestly." He can feel the press of Malfoy's knee against his, and he glances over at him. Malfoy's looking away, but the tips of his ears are definitely getting a bit pink. 

"You're all right, though," Parkinson says to Whitaker. "Yeah?" Her hair's loose around her shoulders now, and she pushes it back behind one ear, a tiny diamond stud sparkling in her lobe.

Whitaker doesn't say anything for a moment; she just stares down into her pint before lifting it up and taking a long drink. When she sets it down, she sighs. "I will be."

Parkinson touches Whitaker's arm ever so briefly, then raises her own glass to her mouth. "Well, fuck Wrightson. You've a new guv, and he's only half as dickheaded."

"Ta ever so," Harry says, with a smile at Parkinson, and she wrinkles her nose at him, setting her pint back down. There's a smear of crimson lipstick on the rim. 

Whitaker just gives them all a sideways look, her elbows on the table, her shoulders hunched over her pint. She's obviously ill at ease, and Harry doesn't blame her. It's never easy to step into a new dynamic in the force, and she hasn't had the easiest introduction to the team this week. Still, she's trying, and Harry likes that about her.

Malfoy looks over at Whitaker. "So," he says, a bit stiffly. "Family, friends, significant other?"

"Just me and my dad," Whitaker says, running a finger around the rim of her glass. "No siblings." She's taken her jacket off, and her shirt's a crisp white cotton with pale, almost invisible, blue flowers dotted across it. It's creased a bit beneath a thin pair of brown leather and icy blue braces, and the top three buttons are undone, gaping open to reveal the jut of her collarbones. "No significant other either," she admits. "Last woman I went out with was six months ago, and it ended when she realised I'd shagged her ex two years back." She lifts her pint again. 

"Two years ago?" Parkinson blinks at her. "Why the fuck would she care?"

"Well, given I was the reason she chucked her all her ex's belongings out the window onto the pavement..." Whitaker shrugs, and Malfoy snorts across the table. She raises her eyebrow at him. "I honestly didn't know at the time they were dating." She hesitates. "Well. Not entirely true. I suspected there was someone else. I just didn't know it was Lacey." 

"You dog," Malfoy says, but there's a bit of admiration in his voice. Whitaker smiles into her beer, and Harry realises he's relaxed a bit. He likes the feel of Malfoy's leg against his, and he lets his thigh slide a bit wider, hooking his boot over the lower rung of Malfoy's stool, letting his calf brush the back of Malfoy's. Malfoy stills, but he doesn't pull away. 

Parkinson twists her half-empty pint between her hands. "At least you didn't shag a married man." She mock-hangs her head; Harry's actually surprised. "If we're doing embarrassing shag confessions."

"Really?" Whitaker glances at her. "You don't seem the type." Harry agrees. It's not something he would have thought about Parkinson. He takes in the faint blush on her cheeks and the haughty set of her mouth when she raises her head again. It's something she's trying to make light of, he can tell. He wonders why. And with whom she might have had the affair. Malfoy might tell him later. Or not. He's damned protective of Parkinson when he wants to be.

Parkinson shrugs and raises her glass. "To be fair, I'd known him since childhood. He wasn't married then."

"And Pans is a horrible strumpet," Zabini says from Parkinson's other side. He blows Parkinson an affectionate kiss. "We love her for it."

"That I am." Parkinson lifts her pint again, her voice a bit more cheerful. "As my mother, may HaShem bless her cantankerous arse, likes to remind me on a frequent basis."

Harry laughs out loud. "She can't be more imposing than Zabini's mum."

All the Slytherins look at him. "Oh, Merlin, guv." Zabini shakes his head. "Camilla fucking Parkinson makes my mother look like a playful little kitten."

Malfoy nods. His pint's nearly empty. "My father still talks about the time she gave him a dressing down at one of those interminable Nott family dinner parties. Father being the arsehole he is, particularly after a few drinks, insulted Pans's father--"

"He implied he was in trade," Pansy says with a laugh. "Which frankly, isn't wrong, but Lucius was being a bloody tit about it that night, and Mother'd had enough."

"Even Aunt Bella heard about the kerfuffle," Malfoy says. "In Azkaban of all places. She brought it up when--" He breaks off and looks away. "You know."

"When she was staying at the Manor," Zabini says firmly, "And shagging Lord Noseless." The look he gives Harry and Whitaker dares them to follow up on that. Whitaker shifts in her seat; Harry just gazes evenly at Zabini, who nods and picks up his pint. Harry lets his hand drop beneath the table, his knuckles brushing against the side of Malfoy's thigh. Malfoy's fingers tighten on his pint, and he glances at Harry quickly before looking away. Harry shifts his hand away before anyone notices.

There are blotches of pink across Malfoy's cheeks. "Yes, well. The point being, at the time no one dared take Father down a peg or two except Camilla. I think Mother was actually cheering her on."

Parkinson gives Malfoy a warm smile. "It was actually one of her finer moments."

Malfoy glances over at Harry. "So yes, Potter, I think you ought to be wary of Pansy's mother." He eyes him. "Although she might like you. You're good marriage material."

"Oh, hell no," Harry says, and the whole table laughs. He looks over at Parkinson. "Sorry."

"No offence taken," Parkinson says. She gives him a sharp, knowing smile. "You're too bloody bent for me, anyway." She glances around the table. "Which, might I point out, I think I'm the only straight person at this table? Draco's the biggest ponce I've ever met--" Malfoy raises his glass to that. "Althea's a lesbian, Blaise will sleep with practically anyone who walks past--"

"Oi," Zabini says. "I do have standards, thanks."

"Yes, but the principle's still the same," Parkinson says, waving his protests away. "You don't care what gender or sexuality anyone is."

Zabini considers, his elbows on the table, thumb running up the side of his pint. "True."

"And, the guv." Parkinson turns those bright brown eyes on Harry. "Fully bent? Everyone knows about the Weasley girl, and then there's Durant, so?"

"Bisexual," Harry says, and he can't believe he's having this discussion with his team. Particularly not with Malfoy beside him, watching him over the rim of his glass. He clears his throat. "And if I see that in the _Prophet_ anytime soon, I'll sack the whole lot of you."

Malfoy rolls his eyes. "Empty threat, Potter," but he's still looking at him, an inexplicable expression on his face. 

Parkinson leans back, a satisfied look on her face. "There you go. I'm your token straight on the team." 

"That can always change," Whitaker says, and she raises her glass, hiding behind it as Parkinson's mouth purses in amusement. 

"Althea Whitaker," Parkinson says, laughter in her voice. "I think you just hit on me."

"I only pointed out," Whitaker says, "that sexuality can be fluid."

Parkinson smiles, more than a bit coquettishly in Harry's opinion, and Zabini pokes her arm. "Stop flirting with Althea," he says. "She's not used to your slaggish ways."

"But it's delightful," Parkinson says, and she winks at Whitaker, who laughs, then presses a hand against her mouth, her cheeks a bit pink.

Malfoy shakes his head. "You're incorrigible," he says to Parkinson. He glances at Whitaker. "My apologies. She gets like this when she's had a pint. Wait until she's had more."

Parkinson drains her glass, flipping two fingers his way before setting it down with a thump. "Speaking of which, I want another round." 

"I'll buy," Whitaker says. She looks at her watch. "But I need to head out. My dad…" She trails off, her teeth catching her bottom lip. She glances around, then says in a rush, "He's in a dry home right now. For alcoholics. I like to stop by and see him after work when I can. Cheers him up a bit for me to come by, you know?" She lifts her chin, as if daring them to say anything.

They're all silent for a moment, then Malfoy says, "I'll help you at the bar, yeah?" and Whitaker nods.

Parkinson squeezes Whitaker's arm as she slides off her stool. "Me too." 

They leave Harry and Zabini alone at the table. Zabini pushes his empty glass away and eyes Harry. After a minute or two of awkward silence, he says, "You should probably stop touching Draco here, you realise."

Harry's face heats. "I'm not--"

"Come on, guv." Zabini shakes his head. "You're practically playing footsie with him under the table. And if you don't want that one--" He nods towards Whitaker's empty stool. "To notice, then you best calm your bloody tits. There's only so bloody much Pans and I can do to protect you two idiots." He looks annoyed.

Harry rubs his thumbnail against a spot on the table. Something dark and sticky crumbles off the wood; Harry flicks it to the floor. "It's none of your business--"

"Except it is, yeah?" Zabini leans forward, his cheekbones sharp, brown skin shining beneath the light of the lamp floating over the table. "What you two do affects our team. And we'll do what we can, because we love Draco and he's bloody determined to do this with you, even if it fucks him over. But don't think we're not worried." Zabini hesitates, then says, "About both of you. Not just him. You're our bloody guv now, and that sodding means something to all of us. Neither Pans or I want to see you fuck up."

Harry doesn't know what to say to that. He looks down at the dregs of his beer. "Sorry."

Zabini leans back. "Don't be like that. You're a fucking Gryffindor. Act like one. Just try not to be too damned reckless and bring all of us down with you."

"I won't," Harry says, and he meets Zabini's gaze. 

Zabini nods. "I know. You'll try not to at least, which I suppose is all that any of us can do." He looks past Harry and smiles. "Fucking brilliant, every last one of you," he says, as Parkinson and Malfoy set new pints down in front of him and Harry. 

Whitaker reaches for her satchel on the floor and slings it over her shoulder. "Tomorrow then?" she says, and there's something about her posture that's more relaxed than it's been all week. Harry thinks this was good for her, that it's helped her feel more a part of the team, and he's glad for that. 

"Greetings to your father," Malfoy says, a bit formally, but Whitaker gives him a small smile. 

"Thanks," she says, and then she's gone with a wave of her hand, disappearing into the crowd. 

Parkinson watches her go, thoughtfully. "I'm starting to like her," she says. "Perhaps against my better judgment."

"She's not so bad," Harry agrees. He glances at Malfoy, who shrugs. 

"I still don't trust her," Malfoy says. "Or like her. But she's not entirely odious."

Zabini lifts his fresh glass. "To Whitaker then?"

Harry and Parkinson clink their glasses to Zabini's. Malfoy hesitates, then joins as well. Harry looks at him. "You certain you're all right? I mean, your dad and all…" He hesitates. "And what Whitaker said about her dad."

Malfoy meets his gaze. "You're worried that I'm upset about the alcoholic part?" Harry just gives him a look, and Malfoy shrugs. "My father is who he is. All of you know that. And if he's bastard trying to drink himself into an early grave, who am I to protest?" He takes a long drink, then sets his glass down. "I'll probably end up joining him in the end. Malfoy genes and all."

"Draco," Parkinson says, but he shakes his head. 

"Ignore me, love," Malfoy says. "I'm just being grim."

Harry nudges Malfoy's knee with his own, Zabini be damned. Malfoy needs to be touched, Harry thinks, and the small smile Malfoy gives Harry makes Harry feel soft and warm inside. He picks up his pint and takes a sip, his stomach fluttering a bit. Whatever this is between him and Malfoy, Harry doesn't want it to end. 

They're nearly through their third round--Harry's this time--when Parkinson stiffens, looking over Harry's shoulder. 

"What?" he says.

"Pansy Parkinson, however have I managed to find you again?" The voice is American, but not the smooth drawl of Jake's accent or the sharp, quick bark of the New York Aurors Harry'd met. It's flat and a bit twangy. Harry turns, catching sight of a tall, lanky man with shoulder-length brown hair striding towards them, a half-empty glass of firewhisky in his hand.

Parkinson gives him a tight-lipped smile, but Harry recognises the dislike in it, and when did he become a connoisseur of Parkinson's expressions? "Hello, Dimitri." She looks between Malfoy and Zabini. "May I introduce Dimitri Godunov? He's an associate of my father's." Her eyes flick towards Harry, and Harry understands. He thinks. He knows Terry Parkinson has a few shady dealings. Nothing that's easily provable, of course. Mr Parkinson does his best to stay within the shadows of the law, at least. "Dimitri," Parkinson says, "these are my colleagues, Inspector Potter, Sergeant Malfoy, and Constable Zabini."

Godunov eyes them all, holding his hand out to Harry first. Harry doesn't take it. Godunov lets his hand fall awkwardly. "So glad to meet you," he says, sliding onto Whitaker's abandoned stool without asking. Harry dislikes him intensely. Godunov sets his glass on the table; he looks over at Parkinson. "You disappeared on Midsummer." He takes a sip of his drink. "Pity."

"Work," Parkinson says, still keeping her voice light and personable. Harry can sense the steel beneath, however. "It crops up at the most inopportune times, doesn't it, fellows?"

"Absolutely," Malfoy says. He's looking at Godunov with distaste. Zabini, at least, has his face schooled into a polite mask. Harry likes that Malfoy can't do the same, that he wears his feelings on his sleeve sometimes. 

Godunov gives them all a bland smile before looking back at Parkinson. "My business with your father will be concluding soon. I'd love to take you out for dinner some night before I leave."

Parkinson just looks at him, her uncertainty obvious. 

"We're in the middle of an investigation," Harry says, and they all look over at him. "I'm not certain Parkinson has time for that sort of thing."

"There's always time for dinner," Godunov says. He turns back to Parkinson. "Wouldn't you say?"

"Well, well," another voice says behind Harry. "This isn't the company I thought I'd find you in, Dimitri."

Malfoy's face goes deathly pale as another man walks up, broad shouldered and dark-haired, handsome and square-jawed. There's something about the set of his mouth that Harry doesn't like, even before Malfoy says, his voice tight, his hand clenched around his pint, "Hello, Nicholas."

Harry does a double-take. _Nicholas._ He glances at Parkinson and Zabini. They both look furious; Zabini seems about ready to spring from his seat.

"Draco." Nicholas raises a glass of wine to his lips, taking a sip. His hand settles on Godunov's shoulder. "Are you trying to chat up Parkinson, Dimitri? Careful. She bites."

"Stings, more accurately," Parkinson says. "As Nicholas knows from being on the wrong end of my hex." She smiles sweetly. "Did the scars fade?"

Nicholas flinches. "Eventually. Although I should send you my specialist's bill, shouldn't I?" He raises an eyebrow. "It's brilliant to have run into you. I'll remind myself to owl that in the morning."

"Fuck off," Malfoy says, and Nicholas turns his sharp gaze on him. Malfoy raises his chin. "I'm serious. You're not wanted here, and your friend should stop bothering Pansy." At that Godunov just smiles, reaching for his firewhisky again.

"Don't be so dramatic, darling," Nicholas says. "Honestly, you always were far too overreactive. It was lovely when I had you on your knees begging, but…"

A flare of jealousy and fury goes through Harry. "He said fuck off, and he meant it."

Nicholas's eyes brighten. "Oh, and Harry Potter's at your defence now, is he? How charming." He holds his hand out to Harry. "Nicholas Lyndon at your service. With the international trading department in Gringotts, as my friend Dimitri can attest."

Harry doesn't take his hand either. He can feel his anger rising, and if he's not careful, something might catch fire. The napkin beneath Godunov's drink is already smoking a bit at the edge. "I think it's time for you both to go."

Nicholas drops his hand, his mouth tightening. "Dimitri, you'll be able to go back to New York and let them all know you met the Saviour of the Wizarding World. British version at least, rude and boorish though he might be."

"Not half as rude as you," Parkinson says with an arch smile. "And while you may be enjoying your stupid banter--that's what you called being an arsehole, right?--half of this bar are Aurors, and I'm sure they'd be more than willing to toss you in a holding cell for the night if any of us, Potter especially, raised our bloody little fingers right now."

"Don't be a bitch, Pansy," Nicholas says. "Besides we all know what they think of Draco, don't we? Dirty little Death Eater scum--"

The napkin beneath Godunov's drink bursts into flame, just as Harry slams his fist into Nicholas's stomach, sending his wineglass flying as he doubles over, grunting. Godunov's swearing, trying to stamp out the small fire curling the napkin into an ashy black smear against the tabletop. 

And then Tom's there, the tables around them silent. "Are these gentlemen giving you trouble, Harry?" 

Harry straightens up, his fist still throbbing. He shakes his hand out and says, "No. They were just leaving." 

Nicholas glares at him, still gasping for breath. "You shit--"

"Come on," Godunov says with a sideways look at Parkinson. "We should go, Lyndon." He leads them away through the now quiet crowd, and Harry wonders how long that's going to take to get in the _Prophet_. Goddamn it. 

Harry rubs at his hand. 

"You need ice for that?" Tom asks. 

"It'd be good," Harry says, and Tom ambles off, back to the bar. When Harry turns back to the table, his team's just looking at him, and the heat in Malfoy's gaze makes Harry's body sing with want. 

"Do not expect me to find that attractive," Malfoy says under his breath. He looks away, cheeks flushing. Harry thinks Malfoy's protesting a bit too much, and he doesn't bother to bite back his grin.

"Fuck me, but I do," Parkinson says, and Harry raises an eyebrow at her. "I mean it," she says. "I'm seeing you in a new light, guv."

Malfoy glares at them both. "Back off, wench." He holds his hand out. "Let me see." Harry lets him take his hand, turning it to look at Harry's knuckles. His fingers are warm against Harry's skin. "You hit him in the soft tissue. You'll be fine." He drops Harry's hand and looks away. 

"No 'my hero' moment?" Harry asks. That earns him a scornful look, and Harry smiles before he says, "Your ex is a fucking shit."

"I wasn't aware." Malfoy takes a long sip of his beer. "Honestly, Potter, do you hear the bollocks that comes out of your mouth sometimes?"

He's being irritable because he's embarrassed. Harry knows this. He wants to pull Malfoy over to him and kiss him and tell him he shouldn't be. That Harry'd pound that fucking arsehole into the ground for him if Malfoy wanted him to. Instead Harry just shrugs. "But you like me."

Malfoy tries not to smile. "You're a wanker."

"Oh, God," Zabini says. "Get a fucking room," he mutters, just loud enough for Harry to catch it. Harry's grateful the rest of the pub's gone back to their own drinks and conversations. Blaise drains his pint and pushes it towards Parkinson. "Your round, woman. You owe us after that."

"It's not my fault," Parkinson protests, but Zabini just gives her a look. "Fine. But you're helping carry this time."

At that moment, Tom appears with four glasses, a bottle of tequila and a bag of ice. "No need. That table over there bought you this." He nods towards a table of Auror recruits across the room, John Dawlish sitting among them. Dawlish raises a glass at them, a wry smile on his face. 

Harry laughs as Tom sets the bottle on the table. "Send them a round back on me, will you?"

Tom shakes his head. "You Aurors," he says. "Least you'll always keep me in business, yeah?"

Parkinson's already pouring the shots as Tom shuffles away. "To the guv," she says, lifting hers, and Zabini echoes her as he raises his glass. 

Malfoy just looks at Harry. "You idiot," he says, but there's a warmth in the insult that even the curl of his lip can't hide. Harry wants so badly to kiss him, but he raises his glass and clinks it against the others. 

"To my team, you mean," Harry says, and even Malfoy smiles as Pansy and Blaise break out into cheers. 

Merlin, Harry thinks, but he's bloody fond of the lot of them.

***

"I'm sorry, love," Nonna, Althea's favourite aide at Rosewood Home says, the lingering remnants of her Russian accent giving her voice a faint, guttural lilt. "Mitch isn't wanting to see anyone right now, not even us. He's having a rough day of it."

Althea sighs. She doesn't mind the trip to Bristol. It's only an Apparation skip away. But she's worried about her father. The anniversary of her mum's death is coming up in another month, and he always gets a bit wobbly around then. "Is it just today?"

Nonna brushes her dark blond hair back from her plump face. There are a few faint streaks of grey in it. "Mostly. He was getting shirty yesterday though. With Cathy, so that's not unexpected."

Cathy Miller is Mitchell Whitaker's nemesis in the home, Althea knows. They loathe each other and have since her father moved in last November. It drives the staff mad, but Althea thinks her dad likes sparring with Cathy. It gives him a bit of spark that she hasn't seen in him for years. To be honest, Althea suspects Mitchell wants to shag Cathy, but it's against the home rules, and if she knows him, he also feels guilty about it, as if even with the thought he's cheating on her mum's memory. That's bollocks, of course. Althea just wants her dad to be happy. She thinks her mum would too; Clio Whitaker'd been too bloody pragmatic to think her husband would never move on after her death. Still, Althea's father had been the sentimental one. Her mum had always laughed about it, delighting in the roses he'd bring home for her and the poems he'd write in sealed notes left over the house, ones that Althea'd never be allowed to see as a child, though her mum would read her a line or two. 

Mitchell'd once been a promising writer, a Muggle journo for the _Guardian_ who'd stumbled into her mother at an Edinburgh party she'd snuck out of Hogwarts to attend at the end of her seventh year. They'd married two years later, and Althea had arrived a year after that. Her father had been mesmerised by the wizarding world; Althea can still remember the look of delight on his face when they'd walked through Diagon for the first time as a family. She must have been six. Maybe seven. 

That had all changed the night Dolohov and Yaxley showed up on her parents' doorstep, Yaxley demanding to see his cousin Clio--and that's a familial relationship Althea's kept bloody quiet since that night--shoving past her father and into the sitting room where her mum had been teaching Althea a knitting charm. It's a blur in her mind, shouting from Yaxley, taunts of _Mugglefucker_ and other slurs thrown Clio's way, Dolohov's wand keeping her father at bay and her mum standing up, insisting they leave, until Yaxley threw the first Cruciatus at her, and then Althea was screaming, begging them to stop, trying to reach her mother until Yaxley flicked his wand her way, slamming her against the brick fireplace.

Althea still has the scars on her shoulder from where the mantel pierced her skin. 

She remembers her mother's crumpled body, her father's sobs as he knelt over her once the others were gone. The Aurors who arrived when she screamed into the Floo. John Dawlish had been one of them, taking her aside gently, trying to mend the gash across her shoulder that was streaming blood. She remembers his kind words, the way he took care of her, the way he carefully pulled her father from her mother's side, asking if there was anyone they could go to, making certain they made it to her nan's house just outside Bath. 

Her father had never gone back to work. 

"Althea," Nonna says, stepping around the front desk. "You all right?"

"Sorry." Althea shakes her head. "Just worried about Dad."

Nonna pulls her into a hug, and only she can do that, Althea thinks. "He'll be fine, love. He's doing better now; I think he might actually make it this go-around, yeah?" 

Althea knows Nonna's only saying it to make her feel better. This is Mitchell's second stay in Rosewood post-rehab. Her father will dry up and be good for a year, maybe two, then he'll fall into the bottle again. It's not that Althea doesn't understand it. She worries about her own propensity for drink. Hence leaving the pub tonight after only one pint. But she's so damned tired right now that she can't bear the kindness of lies. 

"Thanks, Nonna," she says, and she pulls back, trying to ignore the worried look in Nonna's eyes. "Can I leave a note?"

Nonna nods and pulls the pad of paper from behind the counter that they keep for moments like this. "I'll find you an envelope, yeah?"

Althea scrawls a quick message to her father. _I love you,_ mostly, and _you'll get through this_ and _I'll be back tomorrow_. She folds it up and sticks it in the envelope Nonna hands her, licking the gummed back and sealing it before she hands it over. 

"His house funds are getting low," Nonna says, setting the envelope on the counter. "He has about fifteen pounds left."

"I'll bring more tomorrow," Althea says, reminding herself to stop by Gringotts before work if she can, and Nonna nods. 

Althea picks up her satchel, hefting it over her shoulder. Her heart's heavy as she leaves, and she glances back from the pavement at the small, wooden house. Her father's window is on the second floor, and she can see a light on behind the curtains. "Be well, Dad," she whispers, and then she walks around a hedge, Apparating away. 

She lands on the Ministry Atrium's Apparition point. Honestly, she doesn't quite know why she came here, except she needs to see a friendly face, hear a kind voice before she goes home to her empty flat and a refrigerator with a bottle of pumpkin juice and half a bag of wilted rocket from Tesco's in it.

Maxie's in the mostly empty bullpen, just where she expected to find him. He looks up from his paperwork when she walks over to him, and the moment he sees her he puts the file jacket aside. "Your dad?" he asks, and she nods. 

He's on his feet then, and his hand settles on the small of her back. "Commissary's still open for a bit. Let's go get a cuppa, yeah?"

She just follows him to the lifts. They're silent until it stops with a jolt on level eight, the doors sliding open. Maxie lets her step out first, then he joins her, walking down the narrow hallway to the commissary. "What happened?" he asks, his voice gentle. "Did he shout again?"

Althea shakes her head. "Wouldn't see me." The commissary's brightly lit and warm, and there's only a handful of people scattered through it--mostly field Aurors working a late shift. Maxie makes his way to the tea station and starts pouring a cup for both of them. Althea rubs the back of her neck. "Mum's anniversary's coming up."

Maxie hands her a cup of black tea, no milk, and stirs some sugar into his own. "You think he's going to slide again."

"I'm worried." Althea follows him to a table near the inside wall. No one else is about. She sits, her hands cupped around the warm mug. "It's what happened last time. He started to cut me off, and the next thing I knew I was taking him to Southmeade's A & E because I found him passed out in his own sick, barely breathing." She looks away. 

"He wasn't in a dry home then," Maxie points out. "He has a whole support system around him."

Althea takes a sip of her tea. "But I'm not there. He does better when I'm living with him--"

"Stop." Maxie leans towards her, his elbows on the table. "You can't be responsible for him the rest of your life, Thea. He's damned grown man, and he needs to make his own choices, not have you doing it for him."

"He'll drink himself into the grave," Althea says, and her voice catches in the back of her throat. That's why she hates the Death Eaters so bloody much, she knows. Dolohov and Yaxley didn't just kill her mum. They've been killing her father too. It's just taking longer.

Maxie reaches out and grabs her hand. Whatever tension's been between them over Wrightson, that doesn't matter. Not right now, and Althea's so bloody grateful for that. "Nothing you can do is going to keep him from that, if it's what he wants."

Althea fights back a wave of tears. "I know." She looks away from him. "Doesn't mean I don't want to try."

"Mad cow," Maxie says, but his smile's warm and gentle. "You're the one who'll end up in the grave if you keep up like this." He hesitates. "Does Potter know about your dad?"

"I mentioned something tonight." Althea turns her mug between her hands, watching as the dark liquid sloshes around the white pottery. She wonders how the Ministry elves keep the cups so clean. There's not a tea stain in sight, unlike most of her mugs at home. She looks up at Maxie. "Just said I was going by. And why."

Maxie nods, lifting his mug to his mouth. "He'll be good about it, you know."

"So was Marcus, and look how that turned out." Althea says it without thinking. She's too used to her new team already, and the look of hurt that crosses Maxie's face sends shame through her. "Arthur," she says, but he shakes his head. 

"It's all right." Maxie runs a thumb around the rim of his tea cup. "I know how you feel about the guv. We don't have to agree." His voice says otherwise. "But he did take you under his wing."

Althea chews on her lip. "He tried to use the Killing Curse on me." 

"Zabini used Cruciatus on Malfoy," Maxie says, a bit hotly, "but we're all supposed to just accept it was Abadzhiev fucking about in his head." He studies his tea. "Come on, Thea. You thought that was shite at the time, now look at you. Practically sucking on Malfoy's teat--"

"Maybe he's changed," Althea says, and the words surprise her as much as they do Maxie. She runs a hand over her mouth. "I don't know, Maxie. I don't know what to think any more. Everything feels topsy turvy, and I know you don't want to hear this, but Marcus confessed today. Admitted he'd been paid--"

"Someone's using him," Maxie insists, and Althea leans back in her chair with a sigh. He's not half wrong. "Jesus, Thea." Maxie tugs at his ginger fringe. "Fuck but I think this Death Eater Registry's not a half-bad idea. Put 'em all on it. All their families, and then we can watch them, and shit like this won't happen."

Althea looks away. She's never told Maxie her mum's mum was a Yaxley. She wonders if that would be enough to put her on the Registry. She doesn't think it would, but she's not so certain any longer. 

But she's also not entirely sure Maxie's wrong either. Fuck, but it's all so goddamned complicated. Still, a few weeks ago, she would have been agreeing with no reservations, and she thinks it's working with Malfoy that might be changing her mind. He doesn't deserve to be on a Registry, she thinks. Whatever his father might have done. Malfoy's not the same arrogant, callous boy he used to be.

"You can't give up on the guv," Maxie says, his voice rough and earnest, and Althea looks at him, her heart breaking a little more.

She's afraid she already may have.

***

"Well, that's it for me," Potter says, pushing back his shot glass. Draco watches him, only just starting to be in his cups. Potter looks gorgeous, rumpled and eyes bright with drink. "Two's my limit, but don't think I don't know that Parkinson and Zabini owe us all a round."

"Not my problem if you're giving up so soon," Blaise says from the end of the table. He pours another shot of tequila. "I, for one, intend to do John Dawlish bloody proud and get delightfully shit-faced tonight." 

Pansy laughs at him, then glances at Potter. "Don't worry. My sobering spells were legendary in the Slytherin common room. One of those and a hangover potion, he'll be right as rain tomorrow morning."

"I'll count on that," Potter says, then he gives her that slow, easy smile of his that makes Draco's toes curl in his boots. "Try one on me?"

Pansy pulls her wand out and flicks it at him. "Sobrius," she drawls, her lipstick nearly gone from her lips. Most of it's smeared across the rim of a glass. Potter flinches for a moment, his eyes going wide. Draco knows the feeling all too well, that sharp bite of the spell as it burns through a good portion of the liquor in one's system. Pansy reaches for her shot glass. "Told you."

"Wow." Potter blinks and shakes his head. "Wasn't expecting that."

"Pans is good," Draco says. He rests his head against his fist, his elbow on the table. He feels pleasantly warm and a bit drowsy. Perhaps he'll have Pansy sober him up as well before he leaves. 

"Yeah." Potter gives him an amused look. "All right there, Malfoy?" 

Draco nods. "I will be soon."

Potter snorts, then pushes his stool back. "Enjoy your drink, all of you. I need to pop back into the office. I left my satchel behind, and I reckon I might need it later." He stands, and his hand settles lightly on Draco's shoulder, a friendly touch that sends a shiver through Draco's body. "Don't stay out too late?"

Pansy gives Potter's hand a pointed look, and he drops it, to Draco's dismay. Draco sends Pansy a glare, which she ignores. "See you in the morning, guv." 

Draco watches Potter walk away a little wistfully, until Pansy throws a balled up napkin at his head. "Stop it, you idiot," she says, and Draco looks over at her. 

"What?" 

Blaise shakes his head and knocks back the rest of his shot. "Honestly, the two of you are bloody pathetic. It's like you're trying to get caught, and that, my friend, is offensive to the entire Slytherin philosophy. Stop acting like an idiot Gryffindor, for Circe's sake. It's not catching. You don't turn into a reckless fool from ingesting Gryffindor spunk." He hesitates, swirling his glass with his fingers. "Or do you?"

"Impossible," Pansy says. "Tracey Davis sucked Cormac MacLaggen's cock for a year and stayed delightfully bitchy." Her mouth twists. "But it was Cormac MacLaggen's cock, so maybe Blaise has a point."

"You're both arseholes," Draco says. He's glad the tables around them have cleared out, giving them a hell of a lot more privacy.

"What I want to know," Blaise says, leaning forward, "is why the hell aren't we talking yet about that little display of jealous masculinity the guv exhibited that earned us this brilliant bottle of tequila in the first place?"

Draco feels his face heat. "It wasn't anything." Except it was, and he bloody well knows it. His stomach flutters a bit.

Pansy gives him an incredulous look. "The guv punched Nicholas in the bloody stomach because he was calling you Death Eater scum, Draco. It's not like that's not practically a sodding declaration there."

"The lady has a point," Blaise says. He taps his finger against the table. "Not that we all haven't thought about decking the twattish little vermin, but Potter did it. In front of half the Leaky." Blaise frowns at Draco. "You know it'll make the paper if Nicholas has anything to say about it. I can see the headlines now: _Mad Wizarding Hero Attacks Honest Gringotts Banker Without Cause: Is Potter's Instability Cause For Alarm?_ " His nostrils flare. "Fucking bastards, the lot of them. Guv excepted, of course."

"I could have handled Nicholas." Draco sounds a bit petulant, but he doesn't care. "I didn't need Potter to step in like a brutish lout."

"And yet it turned you on." Pansy picks up her shot glass. "Don't lie to me, Draco. I saw your face." She sloshes a bit of tequila onto her thumb and sucks it off. "Lust, pure and simple."

Draco frowns at her. "You're pissed, and a sodding idiot to boot."

"Oh," Pansy says, acting mock-hurt. "He's starting to insult me, Blaise. I must have hit a nerve." She reaches over and pats Draco's hand. "It's fine, love. Blaise and I both know you're arse over tit for him. As much as we worry about you, I think we're becoming resigned to our fate. Eventually it'll all blow up in our faces, and we'll be split up in disgrace, but we might as well enjoy this while we can, yeah?"

A wave of shame and guilt floods through Draco. Merlin, but he ought to just sign those transfer papers and be done with it all. Protect his friends the only way he knows how. Except he's not sure he wants this to end, if he's honest. He's beginning to love their broken little team. He must be drunk, Draco thinks, to be so maudlin.

"Leave him be, Pans." Blaise gives Draco a sympathetic look. "He's had a night of it already." He eyes her. "And what was that with that Godunov bloke? He's the one you met at your parent's party last Friday, yeah?"

Draco looks between them. "Am I missing something here?"

"Oh, you weren't with us the other night, were you?" Pansy looks a bit surprised, then she considers. "I think you might have been shagging Potter." She glances over at Blaise, wrinkling her nose. "That's him, yeah. He's awful, isn't he?" She sighs and turns back to Draco. "Tony says we should watch him. Godunov works with the Abadzhievs." She hesitates, turning her shot glass between her fingers. "And now he wants to go into business with my father. Merlin help us all."

"Potter doesn't know that." Draco watches Pansy. "About Godunov, I mean."

Pansy shakes her head. "I'll have to mention it eventually. But for now…" She shrugs. "I'd rather not pull my family into this mess unless I have to."

Draco doesn't blame her. They're silent for a moment, the lot of them. 

"Fuck," Draco says finally. "We're all buggered, aren't we?"

"I'm not even going to talk about Robards tweaking me yesterday about my sodding grandfather," Blaise says, his voice morose. He eyes the bottle of tequila. "Merlin, I need to be drunker."

Draco glances at Potter's empty stool. He wants to be with him, he thinks. Wants to wrap his arms around Potter, kiss him until Potter wipes away all thoughts of Nicholas from Draco's feverish mind. He closes his eyes and breathes out. When he opens them again, Pansy's watching him. 

"Go," she says quietly. "I know you want to."

"It's stupid." Draco's throat feels tight and raw. "You know it is."

"Probably." Pansy shrugs her shoulders. "But sometimes we need to do stupid things, yeah?" She worries her lip between her teeth. "You stood by me through Tony. If I need to do the same for you, I will."

Warmth floods through Draco. "I adore you," he says quietly, and she reaches out for his hand, wrapping her fingers around his.

"I know." Pansy squeezes his hand, then draws hers back. She pulls out her wand and flicks it at him. "Sobrius," she says with a smile, and Draco feels the quick hot prickling of the spell going through him, clearing his head, settling his nerves. "Now you don't have to worry about whether you're too pissed for whatever." 

Draco slides off his stool and leans over to kiss her cheek. "You're both the best," he says. "I'm sorry if I'm bollocksing things up for you too."

"Shut up and go," Blaise says. He lifts his glass. "Fuck well, my lad."

He and Pansy both laugh as Draco flicks them off. 

Circe, but he has brilliant friends, Draco thinks, pushing his way through the crowded pub. Ones he's not certain he entirely deserves. 

He steps out into the alley behind the Leaky and Apparates, landing in the Ministry Atrium with a thud of his boots against the marble floor and the bronze plate of the Apparition Point. Potter's only been gone for ten minutes. Fifteen at most. He might still be in the office, and Draco decides to try there first. Still, he's nervous. What if Potter only went to pick up his satchel and leave, or if he's not in the mood for company tonight? But Potter did tell him not to stay out late. Draco can't help but think that means something.

Draco squares his shoulders and puts his fears, worries, and hopes out of his mind. He tells himself he's only going pop into the incident room to pick up his holdall and see what happens. His run into the office this morning had been the best part of his day. Never mind that he'd had to duck into Potter's empty office to dress, then turn round and Floo to Hannah's office. That interview with Avery had gone well, and overall Draco is trying to be optimistic. Even after running into Nicholas tonight--perhaps especially after, if Draco's honest--he's feeling buoyed up by hope and promise. And that's something to consider, isn't it? It's the first time Draco's seen Nicholas post-breakup that he hasn't felt ripped apart, fragile afterwards. Draco doesn't think it's just Potter's reaction--and Pans is right, though he'll never admit it; Draco'd found Potter's violent reaction oddly exciting. But even before that, with Potter sitting beside him, Draco hadn't felt that need to sink into himself, the way Nicholas had always caused him to before. He'd felt strong. Defiant. Not beaten down and tired. 

Potter makes Draco feel as if he can take on the world sometimes. It's been a long, long time since Draco's believed that of himself. 

With a roll of his shoulders, Draco stretches his calves as the lift takes him up to Level Two. He hasn't run often enough in the past weeks, given all that's happened, and he was slow and achy this morning. But he felt amazing afterwards. He needs to get himself back on track, needs to remember to take care of himself, and maybe even push himself a little more. He's always wanted to run a half-marathon. Perhaps he should train for one in the fall?

The incident room is dark when Draco slips back into it, but Potter's office door is ajar and warm light spills out into the shadowed room. Draco moves quietly, going around to his desk in front and spotting the missing holdall. He doesn't know why he didn't hang it on the hooks like he usually does, but then again, his habits have been disrupted lately with all the chaos swirling around him. He misses Grimmauld Place at times, its comfort and its warmth, but he's still grateful to be back in his own flat, if he's honest, even with his mother swanning about in her dressing robe at all hours of the day and night like the bloody Ghost of Malfoy Manor. Draco smiles. She wouldn't be a malicious ghost, he thinks, just a nosy and opinionated one. Circe, he loves her.

Draco pauses, his holdall in his hand. He could still beat a hasty retreat. Or he can go over to Potter's office and see what happens. This is always where he goes wrong, not choosing to walk away. He thinks for a moment, there in the dark, listening to Potter rustle through papers. He's not sure he can walk away at this point.

"Are you coming or going, Malfoy?" Potter's voice drifts out from the open doorway, and Draco stills. 

"What if it's not me?" Draco sets his satchel and his holdall down on his desk. He walks over to the wedge of light spilling from Potter's open door.

Potter's laugh tumbles out into the shadows of the incident room. "Call it a sixth sense."

Draco blinks against the light of Potter's office and leans against the doorjamb. "You're a Seer now? Let me ring the _Prophet._ "

"What took you so long?" Potter's smiling, Draco can see that and hear it in his voice. He's sitting with a file jacket open in front of him. His office is its usual chaos: piles of files scattered on every available surface, along with stacks of various papers and some books. Potter had mown through the mess a week or two ago, but it's back again now.

"You were waiting for me?" Draco raises an eyebrow, playing up how baffled he is. But still, he is a bit. "You really must be divinatory."

"More like you make a lot of noise, Malfoy." Potter leans back in his chair, his smile widening. "You do remember that your lack of awareness as to your own stealth is how we started all this?"

Draco returns the smile and shakes his head at Potter, lets his hair fall into his face. He remembers well, and his cheeks warm at the memory of Potter laid out on the bench in the training centre changing room, gloriously muscled and hard. And the shower. Circe, the shower. A few times in the shower, actually. His cock's already swelling at the thought. 

"Maybe you're just unnaturally good at detecting danger." Draco's voice is honeyed, a bit cloying even to his own ears. Merlin, but he might as well bat his eyelashes at Potter like a lovesick cow, oughtn't he?

Potter snorts. "Don't try to get out of it by flattering me, Malfoy. I'm not in the mood."

Draco steps into the office, sensing an unusual vulnerability in the slump of Potter's shoulders, a fragility even. "What _are_ you in the mood for?" He tries to ask it like a sultry joke, but he's actually curious. 

The file jacket closes and Potter sighs. "I wish I knew. Not reading this." He gestures with the closed file, then sets it on his desk. "That's for sure."

Draco draws closer, sees the name _Mafalda Hopkirk_ in a tidy scrawl on the jacket tab. Potter's collar's open and his braces are loose about his hips, white sleeves pushed up on his strong, golden forearms. Draco particularly likes Potter like this, rumpled and gruff. He bumps knees with Potter gently. "Perhaps I could help take your mind off it?"

Potter looks up at him, his eyebrows going up. "Malfoy, I don't mean to kill the mood, but didn't you just down a few pints of ale and two shots of tequila?" His hand settles on Draco's hip, and he smoothes the seam of Draco's trousers. "I'm not shagging you pissed."

"I'm not drunk." Draco says, enjoying the warm touch of Potter's palm against his hip. He feels a bit bereft when Potter drops his hand. "Pansy cast a sobering charm on me before I left the Leaky." Draco shifts his hips a little, watching Potter's eyes follow the movement. He loves having this sort of power over Potter, this chance to interrupt him without consequence, to focus Potter's attention only on the movement of Draco's body. It's a bloody aphrodisiac in a way, knowing Potter of all people wants him this much. 

Potter looks up at him. "Did she." His green eyes are dark behind his glasses, his full lips parted. "And she knew you were coming here?"

"She suspected." Draco doesn't want to admit that Pansy sent him. He'd rather keep that private. For now at least. He shifts, turning to rest his arse against Potter's desk. He lets his fingers brush Potter's cheek. "Do you mind?" Draco can tell he's having an effect on Potter from the shift in the energy between them, a languor that is echoed in their gestures toward each other. 

Not to mention the impressive bulge that's starting to press against the flies of Potter's trousers.

"Should I?" Potter asks.

Draco lets his thumb drag across Potter's bottom lip. "Merlin," he murmurs. "Do you know how hard I got watching you all night? Feeling you press your leg against mine? Knowing that anyone might see us?" 

"Yeah?" Potter nips at the tip of Draco's thumb, then flicks his tongue against it. Draco shivers as he drops his hand. "Exhibitionist, are you?"

"I never thought I was," Draco admits. "But with you, I'm not certain." He studies Potter's face, sees a faint reflection of his own in Potter's glasses. "You didn't have to hit Nicholas though."

"Oh, but I bloody well did." Potter's expression hardens. "What he called you--"

"Is nothing you didn't call me before." Draco lets his knuckles brush Potter's jaw. It's a bit stubbly, rough against his skin. Draco wants to feel it against his thighs as Potter kisses up them. A shudder of want goes through him. "When we were younger."

Potter's looking up at him. "I never said that."

"You implied it." Draco's hand slides along the length of Potter's throat. He can feel Potter's pulse thrum beneath his fingertips. 

"Then I was a fool." Potter places his hand against Draco's stomach, flattening it against Draco's shirt, one finger working between the buttons to slip against Draco's bare skin. "Lyndon's an arsehole. How he talked to you--" Potter stops himself, looking away. His jaw works. "I mean it. I'd have beat him to the bloody floor if you wanted me to."

Only Blaise and Pansy have ever offered that. "Are you sure you're not Slytherin?" Draco asks. He rubs his thumb along the jut of Potter's collar bone. Merlin but he wants Potter to take him right here. Right now.

Potter licks his lip. "The Sorting Hat once told me I could be," he says quietly. "But I asked for Gryffindor instead."

Draco's surprised. "Oh." He studies Potter's face, trying to ascertain if he's joking. "You're serious."

"Yeah." Potter gives him a wry smile. "But someone told me all the bad wizards came from Slytherin, and I was too frightened to find out if they were right."

"Were they?" Draco's heart thuds against his chest. He doesn't know that he wants Potter to answer that question. He feels exposed. Raw. 

Potter draws him down into a slow, gentle kiss. "No," he says against Draco's mouth. "They weren't."

Draco melts against Potter, lets him pull him into his lap, straddling Potter's hips, his knees pressed against the sides of Potter's leather chair. Their kiss deepens, their teeth nipping at soft lips, tongues sliding together, flicking lightly against one another until they're both breathing hard. Potter's hands cup Draco's face; his glasses are fogged at the bottom. 

"Merlin," Potter whispers, and then he's kissing Draco again, and Draco's hands are tangling in Potter's hair, his breath coming in soft, muffled gasps that Potter swallows, his fingers sliding along Draco's jaw. 

And then Draco pulls back, his hands going to Potter's waistband. He looks down at Potter, at his swollen mouth and the press of Potter's cock against his own through their trousers. "I want to blow you," he says. "Right here. Tell me I can."

Potter's inhale of breath is harsh, and his voice low when he speaks. "Christ, Malfoy. I don't know who put you on earth for my private torment, but you're devastating." He rubs the heel of his strong, golden hand into Draco's thigh. His breathing is shallow, his chest full.

Draco brushes his mouth against Potter's, quick and soft, then he leans back again, luxuriating in the naked want he sees in Potter's face. "Are you calling me some sort of demon?" He smiles wickedly, showing his teeth. 

"Perhaps." Potter's hands slip to Draco's stomach, then lower still. "Although I was rather thinking angel." He snaps his fingers, and Draco hears the outer door to the incident room lock, the tumblers thudding solidly against each other. 

"Fuck," Draco says. "When you do that…" He rocks his hips forward against Potter's, his lip caught between his teeth. "I get so fucking hard."

Potter pulls him down into another kiss, this one quick and rough, all teeth and tongue, Potter's body twisting beneath Draco's. "You have a mouth meant for cocksucking," he says against Draco's wet lips. 

"Do I?" Draco asks breathlessly. 

"Christ, yes." Potter cups Draco's arse with his hands, and Draco tilts Potter's head back, parting his lips with his tongue and then slipping it inside Potter's mouth. Potter sucks greedily, his hands kneading Draco's arse, and Draco's tempted just to frot against him in the chair right bloody now until they're both crying out their release. 

Draco jerks his mouth away, breathing heavily. His hands are clenched around the bloody chair arms for support. His prick's about to burst out of his trousers any moment; Potter's feels hot and heavy against his, as if it's aching to do the same. 

"Right," Draco says, survey the wrecked look on Potter's face and knowing that his own mouth must be as pink and puffy as Potter's, if not more. His skin is already irritated from Potter's stubble, and he feels infinitely powerful. He shifts his hips against Potter's, and Potter groans. "I believe I was going to blow you."

Potter bites his lips, his hips jerking up. "Yeah. I think you were. If you want." Potter's so turned on, Draco notes, his thighs are clenching with the effort of not thrusting forward. Well, Draco can work with that. Another snap of his fingers and Potter casts a Muffliato wandlessly. He looks at Draco with a small smile. "Foreplay," he says, and Draco wants to have him now, Potter's prick shoved up his arse, fucking him here across all the bloody file jackets. 

Instead, Draco slides through Potter's spread thighs. He wishes he'd had the foresight to cast a cushioning charm, but oh well, needs must, and Draco's not adept with wandless magic. He supposes he could ask Potter, but Draco honestly doesn't think his prick could stand another burst of power like that, and he'd rather not come in his trousers. Not tonight. He'll have sore knees tomorrow, and he doesn't bloody care. He wants Potter's cock in his mouth. Now.

He tears open the flies of Potters trousers, hearing the stuttering breath above him as Potter watches Draco's head bend over him. Potter smoothes Draco's hair back from his face. "Christ, how you look," Potter says breathlessly.

Draco noses through the white cotton at the hard length of Potter's cock. Potter's pants are already moist and musky, and Draco smiles into the soft fabric, inhaling Potter's scent, before he rubs his cheek against the thick swell of Potter's prick. Potter inhales sharply, then stifles a groan. 

When Draco looks up, Potter's eyes are dark and hot, his gaze fixed on Draco. "Malfoy," he says, and it's almost an incantation, hushed and reverent. Potter's hand cups Draco's chin. "You've no idea how much I want you, do you?"

Draco's not certain he does. "How much?" he asks, and his thumb circles Potter's head, dragging the soft cotton of Potter's pants over the leaking slit. He wants to taste Potter, to suck him in his mouth and hear him gasp, to feel the shudder of desire go through Potter's thighs. 

"More than anyone I've ever had," Potter says, and his eyes are soft and wide. "You frighten me sometimes. The things I'd do…" He trails off, and his finger slides over Draco's mouth. Draco sucks it in, wraps his tongue around it before letting Potter pull it free with a soft nip at the tip. Potter draws in a ragged breath. "Please," he says, and he bites his bottom lip. "I need…" 

"I know." Draco runs his hands up to Potter's angular, muscled hip bones, making Potter lift his arse, then pulling Potter's pants and trousers down to his ankles and pushing Potter's knees wider. The braces slap against the floor, a jangle of leather and metal fastenings against rough carpet. Potter's cock bobs in front of Draco's face, wet and ruddy and impossibly hard. 

"Jesus," Potter says. He grips the arms of his chair. "Malfoy--"

"Wait." Draco leans back, holding Potter's gaze. He starts to unbutton his shirt.

Potter exhales. "Oh, God." He watches as Draco works each button free, pulls the shirttails out from his trousers. 

"Do you want to touch me?" Draco asks. He knows Potter's gagging to.

"Yes." It's a raw, rough huff, nearly catching in Potter's throat. 

Draco draws his rumpled white shirt off one shoulder, then the other. He undoes his cuffs, lets the shirt slide off over his hands. It falls to the floor beneath Potter's desk. "How much?"

"I think I might die if I don't," Potter chokes out, and Draco leans forward, his chest brushing against Potter's prick. 

"Don't," Draco murmurs, and Potter's hands are on Draco's back, sliding across his skin as Potter groans, his hips pressing his cock up against Draco's body. "I prefer you alive."

"Fuck." Potter's twisting beneath Draco. "Please." His fingernails scrape across Draco's skin. "I need…" He breaks off in a moan. "Please," he says again, and it's soft, keening.

Draco looks up at Potter, almost overwhelmed by how desperate Potter is for him. It's everything he's ever wanted, and his whole body's trembling with his own need. "You're incredible," he says, and Potter looks at him with unfocussed eyes. Draco pushes Potter's shirt up, looks at the dark trail of hair down Potter's flat, muscular abdomen, thickening around the base of Potter's prick. "Gorgeous, even." Draco's never been more thrilled to suck cock. No one has one as brilliant as Potter's, in his experience at least. He suspects even Blaise, as renowned as his prick is, flags in comparison. Draco licks his lip, considering, before he lets himself slide back enough, his face over Potter's swollen cock. He breathes a quick huff of air across the head of Potter's prick, just to hear him curse, Potter's hips bucking up again. When Draco mouths at Potter's swollen slit, sliding his tongue forward to press at it, Potter puts his hands loosely in Draco's hair. Draco slides his tongue along Potter's shaft, tasting the salty bitter musk of his body and smelling his arousal. Potter's terribly hard already, and Draco's sure he's not going to be down here for long before Potter comes.

He drags his tongue up along Potter's prick, and Potter swears, his hips shifting. 

"Steady," Draco says.

Potter breathes out, sliding his hands down Draco's back. "Trying."

Draco opens his jaw a little bit, taking the first inch or so of Potter's prick into his mouth, his tongue pushing Potter's foreskin back. Potter's hands grip Draco's shoulder, and he makes a small, soft sound. Draco brings his hand up to cup Potter's balls, feeling how tight they already are. He looks up, Potter's prick rubbing against the inside of his cheek. Potter's eyes are half-closed, watching him. He looks like he's in pain or ecstasy, possibly both at the same time. Potter's thick, calloused thumb strokes Draco's cheek where the swell of Potter's cock is pressing out. 

"Circe, you're bloody exquisite, you know," Potter whispers. The look in his eyes is hot and bright, and Draco's face warms. "You're mouth stretched around my prick like that…" He draws in an unsteady breath. " _Malfoy._ " His hands move to Draco's head, his fingers tangling in Draco's hair.

Draco shifts his weight on his knees and opens his mouth wider, bracing his shoulder against Potter's leg for a moment until he gets his balance, then taking Potter's stiff length much deeper. Draco's eyes water for a moment when Potter's prick strikes the back of his throat, and he wills himself to relax, wills his gag reflex to settle. He breathes through his nose, his mouth aching, stretched as wide as it can be. His hand clasps firmly around the remaining inches of Potter's amazing prick, and Draco pulls up with his fist as he slides down a bit more, his mouth taking Potter further and further down his throat. It's like another bloody dimension. Draco feels like he's floating on Potter's cock, the world around him fading, his taste sharpening He tries to get a breathing rhythm. Sucking cock is like running, in a way; synchronising your breath makes everything better. Draco feels the fullness of Potter's prick in his throat, the thrust of Potter's hips as he writhes beneath Draco, the slight pain of Potter pulling his hair as Potter clenches his fingers in delicious agony.

And then Potter's hips jerk, and his prick slips deeper down Draco's throat. Draco's gripping the base of Potter's erection firmly, his hand meeting his mouth almost flat against Potter's groin. _Fuck_. He's never had Potter this deep before, and it's making him so fucking hard himself. He rolls his hips, letting his cock rub against Potter's calf, and he hears Potter swear above him. 

"Jesus," Potter says, his fingers twisting in Draco's hair. "Jesus, Malfoy, fuck. Are you going to rut against my leg while you suck me off, because, Christ--" He groans, and his hips buck again. "Fuck, your mouth's so goddamn tight--" 

Draco slides his hands beneath Potter's thighs and lifts them up just enough to change the angle of Potter's prick in his throat, and Potter's whole body jerks. 

"Fuck," Potter cries out, and Draco swallows around the swollen crown of Potter's prick lodged firmly in his throat. Potter's fingers tug at Draco's hair, and Draco almost chokes on the flood of bitterness as Potter's spunk spurts into his mouth. Draco pulls back a little, resisting the urge to cough, and swallows what he can. His chin is slick and dripping. He slides his arms from beneath Potter's thighs, letting him slump back into the chair.

Potter gasps above him, his body still shuddering, and Draco realises that Potter was trying to be quiet. He failed, and that realisation makes Draco rather bloody pleased with himself. He watches Potter's cock soften against his belly, smears of spunk catching in the crisp dark hairs around the base. 

"Sorry. I--" Potter's face is blotchy and flushed, and he looks stunned and faintly embarrassed. "I didn't realise I was going to--" He waves a hand weakly.

Draco smiles, leaning back on his heels and wiping a hand across his mouth. He licks his lips with his tongue experimentally, testing how raw they are. Not bad. Potter's salty-bitter taste is still there, and Draco feels his own prick jerk at the thought. 

"That's perfectly alright." Draco's voice is hoarse. Shit, but he loves sucking cock and having a raspy voice the next day and knowing that's what it's from. He's going to have to interview Selwyn, Potter's said, and he'll have to pretend he has a throat cold, but it'll be from sucking off his guv. He'll be hard for days thinking about this. "I think you needed that."

Potter's eyelids close for a moment, his fingers heavy on Draco's shoulder, breath coming in pants. "Yeah. I suppose I did."

Draco pushes himself up and then wobbles. Potter steadies him with a hand as he finds his balance, his knees protesting. He leans his arse against Potter's desk and the blood starts to circulate in his legs again. Damn it, he really needs to remember the cushioning charms next time. 

"Now the question is, what do you need?" Potter's smiling up at him, trousers still around his ankles, shirt ruched up over his belly, spent prick sticky against his thigh. 

Draco admires Potter's openness, his utter unselfconsciousness in moments like these. Draco shrugs, sitting back a little onto the edge of desk. His prick's swollen and hard against his flies, and Potter's gaze is fixed on its outline. "What's on offer?"

Potter strokes a thumb over Draco's erection, head tilted consideringly, and Draco gasps from the contact. He's much harder than he thought. His nipples tingle and his bollocks tighten.

When Potter looks up at Draco's face, there's an uncertainty to his expression. 

"What?" Draco asks softly.

"I was thinking." Potter hesitates, licks his lip. He's nervous, Draco realises. 

Draco lets his hand settle over Potter's, pressing it against his hard prick. "Whatever you want," he murmurs. "Just tell me, and we'll talk about it."

Potter's quiet for a moment, and then he nods. "I was thinking," he says again, "that perhaps I should spank you for your impertinence." Potter's watching carefully, almost hesitantly for Draco's reaction. He licks his lip again. "You might need to be disciplined for your insolence." Potter swallows. "Catching me unawares like this." He doesn't look away from Draco's face.

Draco didn't expect this, and he's a bit weak-kneed at the prospect. He's experimented once, and knows he likes a bit of light spanking. But he'd hardly expected his SIO to offer it in his office, and the very thought of it's making him leak wetly in his current condition. 

"That sounds good," he says cautiously, hoping Potter's as into this as he is. "If you wanted."

"I do." Potter's still looking at him. "But do you?"

Draco gives him a small smile. "Are you asking if I've done this before?"

Potter bites his lip, then nods. "Yeah?"

Draco leans in, brushes his mouth across the corner of Potter's lips. "I have." He moves the other corner, presses another kiss there. He can feel Potter's breath against his skin. "And I like it."

Potter's hands settle on Draco's hips. "Is it something you've done with people you dislike?"

For a moment Draco wants to laugh, then he pulls back. Potter's looking up at him, a worried line between his brows. Draco reaches out, smoothes a finger across the wrinkle. "You want to know if Nicholas and I did this?" 

"I don't want to do anything that's going to be difficult for you," Potter says. "If that bastard hurt you--"

"He didn't." Something warm and lovely furls through Draco's body at the look in Potter's eyes. "Nicholas liked to humiliate me. And some of the things we did weren't exactly negotiated." Or entirely, explicitly consensual, Draco thinks privately, but there's no damned way he'll tell Potter that. Even Blaise and Pansy don't know all of it. "Nicholas was a manipulative, fucking shit, but that doesn't mean there aren't things I'd like to do with you." He touches Potter's cheek. "And to you." 

Potter's breath catches. "We could talk about some of those things." 

"Yeah?" Draco doesn't know how he can get harder, but he does. "Like what?"

"I wouldn't mind a good tie-up sometime," Potter admits. "If that's something you might like to do." He looks around them. "In a proper bed."

Draco draws in a slow breath. He's fairly certain his prick's going to burst through his flies. "I wouldn't object to trying that out. When you're ready."

Potter slides a thumb across Draco's lips, and Draco takes it into his mouth, sucking at the fleshy pad. "Jesus," Potter says. He looks at Draco. "You're sure?"

Draco pulls back, letting Potter's thumb slip wetly out of his mouth. "Oh, Potter, I've never been more certain about anything," he says softly. 

Then Potter withdraws his hand. He breathes out, a small smile curving his lips. "Well, then, kit off and bum up?"

"Yeah." Draco's cheeks are suddenly warm, and he's awkwardly trying to get his trousers down under Potter's gentle scrutiny. He toes off his boots, then pushes his pants down and wriggles out of them, his hair falling into his face. He's so bloody turned on by the thought of this. He's only done it once before, with a bloke he'd met in the back of a Muggle club, and it's something he still has wet dreams about. Pansy'd probably tell him it was because he'd been utterly undisciplined as a child, but that's bollocks, Draco thinks. 

Nicholas had wanted to, more than once, but it was something Draco had resisted every time--one of the few things Draco had fought back on--because he was never certain Nicholas would stop. He'd been too afraid once Nicholas had hit him, too wary that Nicholas would turn something erotic into yet another chance to slap Draco about. Draco hadn't trusted Nicholas. 

He trusts Potter.

The thought of Potter's hand against his flesh makes Draco ache deep in earthy part of his soul. Still, he feels coltish and unsure standing in front of Potter like this, utterly starkers, his body on full display. 

"You're certain your hand's up to this?" Draco asks. "You did hit a man."

Potter just gives him a faint smile. "Already cast an Episkey on it before you showed up."

"Aren't I the lucky one?" Draco knows he sounds cockier than he feels. He picks up Potter's right hand and looks at it, before glancing up at Potter. 

"Satisfied?" Potter's tone is definitely one of amusement. 

Draco just nods, his thumb stroking across Potter's knuckles. 

"Turn around," Potter's voice is rough with want. "Over the desk." He takes a soft breath. "I want to sit here tomorrow and think of you like this."

"Kinky sod," Draco says, but he turns and bends over the edge of the desk, his arse up for Potter's perusal. He stretches his arms out, grips the other side. His pricks pressed against the slick, cool surface of the desktop. It feels incredible; it's all Draco can do not to rut himself against it.

"You've no idea." Potter strokes the curve of Draco's right arse cheek, and Draco shivers. "Or maybe you do."

Draco looks back over his shoulder. "I might."

Potter just smiles at him. "You're so sensitive," he says, stroking the left cheek, around to where it becomes Draco's hip. Draco feels on display and like he's going to have gooseflesh in a moment. Even having Potter watch him like this is a massive turn-on. He shifts, off balance, exposed. "I love seeing what your body does when I touch you."

"Does it make you hard?" Draco asks, and he can't help but roll his hips backwards into Potter's palm.

"Christ, yes." Potter's fingers slip through the crease of Draco's arse, brushing against his aching hole. Draco wants Potter to press them in, to spread him open, even if he's bloody dry. 

He doesn't, and Draco leans his forehead against the desk, his fingers clenched around the wooden side. "Fuck."

The crack of Potter's hand is unexpected, and Draco cries out with the pain of it. His eyes water and his throat is thick. Potter's hand rubs over the spot he's just reddened, soothing it. "There, there. Only a few more." Potter strokes the root of Draco's prick through Draco's slightly spread thighs, his fingers brushing over Draco's heavy bollocks, and Draco moans against a file jacket. He thinks it's Mafalda Hopkirk's.

"That's good. You're doing really well," Potter says. His touch is so soft and careful against Draco's skin. "Try to be quiet so no one hears, yeah?"

Rationally, Draco knows that the door is locked and the spells Potter cast won't let anyone hear. But there's part of him that makes him nod, makes him spread his legs wider. 

"You like that?" Potter asks. "The idea of the whole team out there while you're bent over my desk like this? You want them to see me take you?" Potter sounds a bit dazed. Draco feels the same way, because isn't that an image? Just thinking about the others watching Potter and him, makes Draco's prick jerk, wet and slick against Potter's desk.

"Exhibitionist, yeah?" Draco chokes out. "Remember?"

"A bloody beautiful one." Potter strokes Draco's arse, presses his mouth against the sore spot. The next smack, when it comes, lands a bit harder, and Draco lurches forward with the force of it, his prick sliding once more over Potter's desk.

"Fuck," Draco says.

Potter hesitates. "Do you want me to stop?"

Draco shudders as Potter's hand smoothes over his stinging skin. "That wasn't a bad _fuck_ , Potter," he says a bit breathlessly. He feels vulnerable. Exposed. And it's turning him on so goddamned much. "So no."

Potter's lips press against Draco's skin again. "God, you really do want this, don't you?"

"Yes." Draco squirms beneath his touch. This is better than the bloke in the club, because this is Potter, and Draco trusts him, needs him, wants him, knows that Potter will never do anything to hurt him, not intentionally, and that is the most erotic thing Draco can bloody well think of in his whole goddamned miserable existence of a life. "Please," he says, and he wonders if this is how Potter had felt when Draco'd sucked him, as if nothing could matter more than feeling Potter against him, touching him, holding him in a way that no one else ever has. 

Or ever could.

"Malfoy," Potter says, softly, and there's so much there in that one whispered huff of Draco's name. Potter's hands slid over Draco's back and his mouth drags gently, wetly over the curve of Draco's spine, and it's almost too much. 

"Please," Draco says again, and his voice cracks. 

And when Potter's hand lands again, Draco's nearly in tears with the frustration of it, and the pain, and yet he's also so damned hard he can't see straight. His arse is on fire and his nerves are overwhelmed with the contradictory signals they are receiving. His heart feels a bit watery and tight in his chest. There's a tenderness in the sharp slap of Potter's palm against his arse that Draco can't describe, a carefulness that takes Draco's breath away, makes him ache for Potter to touch him, to bring him off, to make Draco his, fully and completely.

Potter soothes him, his hand stroking his lower back. "You're doing great," he says. "Just one more and then I'll take care of you, yeah?"

All Draco can do is nod. 

Potter cracks another blow to Draco's left arse cheek and Draco bites his lip, feeling the sting of Potter's hand and the sting of his teeth simultaneously. He groans, his whole body shaking, his toes pressing into the rough weave of the carpet. He shivers as Potter scrapes his nails lightly over the stinging flesh of Draco's arse. 

"Please," Draco manages, his voice thick. 

Gently, Potter rubs Draco's skin, his touch feather-light. "Please what?" he asks, voice soft.

"Please let me finish," Draco begs, almost floating in his own body. "I need…" He breathes out. "I'm so hard." He shifts his hips needily and tries not to whine.

Potter strokes Draco's hip. "I know," he says roughly. "My desk's wet from you." He shifts, moving against Draco, and Draco can feel Potter's bare skin against his, the soft swell of Potter's half-hard prick against his thigh. He wonders vaguely what Potter's going to do. He's not expecting the charm that unfurls against his arsehole, leaving it sensitive and cold, nor the warm thrust of Potter's tongue that follows.

All of Draco's nerves are alight at once, and he's gripping the edge of the desk with his fingernails and biting his lip not to scream with pleasure. Potter's hand is under him, massaging his aching cock, as Potter's tongue breaches his arse and thrusts further and further inside him. Draco spreads his thighs wider and lets Potter have him, giving himself over to the pleasure of Potter's tongue and the sting of Potter's stubble against his bruised and reddened arse.

He thinks he can float like this forever, body and spirit joined only by the waves of pleasure and pain that Potter is sending through his nerves, but then his prick jerks in Potter's hand and his arse clenches around Potter's tongue and he almost wish everyone in the whole damned Ministry could hear him despite Potter's Muffliato because he's shouting now and he doesn't care because his body's jerking, writhing, twisting beneath Potter's hands and his mouth, his arms shaking as he pushes himself up, his head thrown back, and _Merlin_. Draco's never felt like this, so spread open, so wild, so goddamned bloody free.

Draco slumps against the desk, his stomach and wood beneath him sticky with his spunk. "Fuck," he breathes out.

Draco's cheeks are wet as Potter pulls him back, settles in the chair, cradling Draco in his arms. Draco turns his face, pressing his nose into Potter's neck, and lets himself be comforted. Potter's arms are strong, and he's warm and gentle against Draco's bare skin.

They sit there for what feels like forever, wrapped around each other, and Draco feels safer here in Potter's arms than he has in years.

"You're all right," Potter says after a long while, his voice soothing. Careful. He rocks Draco slightly, smoothing his hand along Draco's back. "Yeah?"

Draco nods, coming back into his head. He feels more in his skin now. His arse hurts dully, and he has to piss. He draws in a slow, shaky breath. "Yeah."

When Potter helps him stand, Draco's still a bit trembly, but he manages to get his trousers back up without too much difficulty. He doesn't bother with his pants; he just picks them up and shoves them in his pocket as he slips his shirt and his boots back on. Potter's said cleaning spells, so everything's not particularly manky, although the room still smells like sex. 

Potter buttons his own flies, then looks up at Draco. "You're sure you're all right."

Draco isn't sure, not entirely, but he nods again anyway. "Stop worrying."

"You know I can't." Potter reaches for Draco, his fingers curling around Draco's wrist. "It's a personality quirk," he says, and then he brushes his lips against Draco's. "Thank you." He pulls back, looking at Draco. "For this."

Draco's taken a bit off guard, and his heart lurches from the look in Potter's eyes. "I think I'm supposed to thank you. That was… " He hesitates, not sure he can put into words what he just experienced. He reaches over and smoothes Potter's hair back from his forehead. "Unexpectedly marvelous," he says softly. Potter turns his head, presses his mouth against Draco's wrist. 

"Yeah," Potter says. He hesitates, his hands settling on Draco's hips. He's so close, Draco can feel the heat from his body, smell the scent of his spunk and musk. "Do you want to come to Grimmauld?" Potter's being careful not to presume, Draco realises. He's giving Draco space to make up his mind, and that makes Draco pull him forward into a long, slow kiss.

"Yeah, actually. That'd be great." Draco says against Potter's lips. 

Potter relaxes against him. "We don't have to do anything else," he says, and his mouth brushes along Draco's jaw. "I just want to hold you. Be with you." He brushes Draco's hair back from his face, pulling back. His eyes are soft. "Sleep with you."

A shiver goes through Draco. "I'd like that." The feel of Potter's arms around him is comforting. Warm. He doesn't want to break away from him. His fingers hook in the waistband of Potter's trousers, and they stand there for a long moment, pressed together, their bodies and breaths almost one. 

Reluctantly, Draco pulls away. "I have to get my things, though, and stop by the loo." He wants to throw himself back into Potter's arms. "If that's all right."

Potter nods, and he looks a bit shell-shocked himself. "I'll get my office together and meet you in the hall?"

Draco touches Potter's cheek. _I think I'm in love with you,_ he wants to say. Instead he smiles and says, "Yeah." It's not quite the same. He steps away unwillingly. Potter's desk is a shambles; files are spilled out everywhere, over the desk, on the floor. Draco sincerely hopes he didn't get spunk on official Ministry documents. 

He suspects he may have.

Potter's watching him as he walks out; Draco keeps himself as calm as he can until he makes it to the loo around the corner. It's only after his slash, when he looks into the mirror above the sink, sees his flushed face and his rumpled, tangled hair, his blotchy skin across his neck, that he's grateful he hadn't run into anyone in the hall. He looks well-fucked, if nothing else. 

Draco splashes cool water on his face and raises up, the sink still running. His flush is fading, but his eyes are bright and his mouth is soft and swollen.

This is what being in love looks like, he thinks.

He swallows, his throat suddenly tight. Water drips from his fingertips, from his chin. 

Merlin, help him, but he's so damned in love with Harry Potter that every last cell in his body aches with the agony of it.

Draco's certain he's lost his bloody mind. 

His hands shake as he dries them on a charmed, heated towel, as he presses it to his face. 

"This won't go well," he tells himself. It's become his mantra whenever he's about to do something bloody stupid with Potter, he realises. 

Draco drops the towel. It disappears with a soft pop. He stares at himself in the mirror, his eyes still shining, his cheeks still pink.

He draws in a ragged breath and squares his shoulders. He doesn't care if it all implodes around him. He wants Potter, needs Potter. 

_Loves Potter,_ his mind whispers.

"Fuck," Draco murmurs, and with one last glimpse at the man reflected in the mirror, he walks out of the loo. 

To Potter, and everything that choice might mean.

***

Althea doesn't know why she does it. Not really.

She should go home, should get some rest. Tomorrow'll be another difficult day. She knows that. But after the cup of tea in the commissary with Maxie, when he's waved goodbye and gone back to the bullpen to finish up her paperwork, Althea doesn't want to go home yet. Not to her empty flat. Honestly, she wonders if she should get a flatmate. At least there'd be someone there to talk to at night, when she's lonely and tired like this, her mind whirling about angrily. Sadly. She trails toward the incident room, thinking maybe she should just sit down and look at a few files. That'll clear her head.

When Althea goes down the hall, there's no one in any of the other rooms. It's a bit unsettling, if she's honest, but she thinks she hears voices in their incident room, which is even stranger. Or perhaps a laugh. She's not certain, and it sounds muffled, as if it's coming through another wall. Surely the rest of them are still at the Leaky. Probably laughing at her over another round of pints, she thinks bitterly. Althea sets a hand on the handle, turning to open the door.

Nothing happens. Althea tries to turn it again, and it turns, but doesn't open. The door to their incident room is locked. All of the others up and down the hallway are open and abandoned, except for the private offices for the SIOs, which always stay locked.

That's very weird, she thinks. She wonders if it's the cleaners again. They'd had that problem once before on Marcus's team. And she supposes it doesn't really matter as long as she can get the door open.

Althea takes out her wand. She's about to say the _Alohomora,_ when another thought hits her. Forget the files. Her wand hand lowers.

She realises who it is she wants to see tonight. Needs to see, if she's honest. Maybe it's Maxie who put it in her head. Maybe it's just not being able to see her father. 

Marcus always has been another father figure to her. Even when she was back in training. She'd idolised the man. Wanted so badly to be part of his team. Even more, if she'll admit it, than she'd wanted Potter to take her on. Marcus had reminded her of her dad, the way he might have been if he'd been a wizard, if he hadn't drunk himself into a stupor after her mum's death. 

Althea turns and swiftly walks down the corridor, then into another corridor. She's not sure it's a good idea to talk to Marcus without permission, but she needs to right now. She needs him to tell her it'll be all right. Even if she knows he can't. Even if she knows he's angry with her. Even if she knows it's her damned fault he's in here. 

No. It's not. It's his, she tells herself. His choices. His decisions. She's not responsible for Marcus any more than she's responsible for her dad. They've both done stupid things. But it doesn't mean she's stopped caring. 

As much as she might want to.

When she reaches the holding cells, Althea stops. Something's not right. She's so wrapped in her own thoughts, it takes her a moment to realise why she's unnerved.

The secure door is ajar. Althea looks around for the guard. There should be an Auror or a Hit Wizard stationed here. 

She doesn't see anyone. The whole bloody hallway's empty. 

And she makes a choice. Per protocol she should send for backup. She should not go down the holding cell hallway alone.

But Althea goes anyway, her wand drawn. She needs to see what is happening, and also to find Wrightson. He's the one she needs to talk to tonight. He's the one she can't forgive yet, although she also wants him to forgive her.

The lights are terribly dim as she walks with measured step, wand out. Looking up, she thinks someone has cast a Nox here that's wearing off. She casts a Lumos swiftly. Part of her brain is in liquid fear, but the Auror part is incredibly calm, taking in the scene around her, pushing her further down the hall, all of her senses on high alert. Step, pause, keep your wand up, another step, another pause.

And then she sees him. In the cell. A body slumped like a pile of rags in the corner. And she knows that he's dead. Marcus. He's gone. She knows that sandy blond hair, those broad shoulders and that barrel chest. It hits her like a punch to the gut. She knows what a dead body looks like: ragged and sad and like a pile of ashes after a fire has burnt through it. It looks like him, but the thing that had made the body Marcus is gone.

Silently, her heart pounding, Althea surveys the rest of the floor, knowing that the killer--and this must be a homicide, she thinks, Marcus didn't even have a wand--could still be here, yet she's strangely not worried. If she meets her own end this way, she meets her end. Sometimes she thinks it would be a relief, but her sanity always shouts at her. 

_Don't give up. Your mother didn't die for you to waste this. She went down fighting to live, fighting for you to live. Don't waste it._

The holding cells are entirely silent as Althea moves past them carefully, checking the inhabitants. Marcus, the woman Hopkirk, Bates, the Death Eater Selwyn. They're all dead, their bodies sprawled across the cell floors.

And no one is here.

She stands in front of Hopkirk's cell, looking down at the small woman, her limp, lifeless body curved around itself, a bony hand outstretched like a claw. "Jesus," Althea whispers, and it's only then that her hand shakes, the light from her wand shuddering around the walls. 

Althea goes back to Marcus's cell and looks in from the doorway, not wanting to walk in and disturb the forensics. She can't see any movement or breath. She knows what the handbook says now, how to raise an alarm. But she doesn't know whom to trust. Maxie? Not now, even though she knows he's here still. But she's not sure whether he's involved in this, and the suspicion kills her.

She pulls the mobile from her pocket that Potter had given her on Monday. Her trembling fingers press his number; she lifts it to her ear. 

"Potter," he answers on the third ring. He sounds a bit annoyed. 

"There's an emergency in the holding cells," Althea says. Her voice shakes. "Marcus. Hopkirk. All of them."

"What?" Potter says something to someone else before coming back to the line. "Say that again?"

Althea swallows, her throat dry. "They're all dead, guv."

There's silence from the mobile, then Potter says. "You're sure." It's not really a question.

"Yes." Althea looks down the silent corridor, at the open cell doors and the flickering lights. "I'm sure."

Potter swears. "I'll be right there," he says, and the line goes dead.

Althea closes the mobile. She leans against the wall, slides down to sit on the floor, and she waits. She may not have been able to save Marcus, but she can sit vigil over his body and wait for the guv to come help.

The lights snap and shimmer above her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, you can subscribe to this fic for chapter updates, or you can subscribe for series updates [here on AO3](http://archiveofourown.org/series/661862) or follow me [on tumblr at femmequixotic!](http://femmequixotic.tumblr.com).
> 
> Chapter Four will be posted on Saturday, June 24!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there are many meetings and the European magical and legal affairs delegation arrive. After which there are more meetings. And there's sex. In there somewhere.
> 
> **Chapter warnings for consensual kink (nipple clamps and butt plugs), vaguely improper use of Gillyweed, and wizarding bureaucracy.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THIS CHAPTER NEARLY KILLED ME. I thought it was going to be maybe 25K. You guys, it's 40. FORTY. I'm sorry????? It's just that things are picking up for the Special Branch, and (spoiler alert) all hell is coming to town. 
> 
> Thank you all so much for your theories, your observations, and your musings. I honestly do not know what I did right in a past life to deserve such a dedicated, brilliant, and astute readership. You're all marvellous!!! (And there will be comments catch-up. RL is settling down a bit. I thought it would be this past week, but, well, FORTY EFFING K.)
> 
> Sassy_cissa and noeon have been incredible. They just do more and more every week, with less notice (sorry Cissa!!). They make the Special Branch project a team and not a disaster.

"Where the fuck is Arnie?" Gawain shouts, standing behind his desk in joggers and an Auror Training Academy t-shirt, his grey hair--or what's left of it--rumpled from running his hands through it. "Antigone, I thought you were on that--"

"I can't get through to Peasegood," Antigone Halliwell snaps. "I've tried mobile, Patronus--neither went through."

"Then send a fucking owl." Gawain turns to Harry, his mouth tight as Halliwell storms out, her anger almost palpable. "Who the fuck was scheduled to be on guard?"

"Pritchett from the Hit Wizards and Thompson from our lot." Harry watches Gawain pace, then glances back in the corner of the room where Parkinson and Zabini are huddled around Whitaker and Malfoy. "Sir, do you know the status of Lucius Malfoy--"

Gawain rubs a hand over his mouth. "Saul's coming with that information."

Harry wishes Croaker would goddamned get up here then. Malfoy's falling apart by the second.

Bertie Aubrey unfolds himself from one of the chairs in front of Gawain's desk. He looks tired, the lines around his mouth deep and drawn. "If you can't get Arnie," he says to Gawain, "he might be at the theatre with his wife. He mentioned having tickets at some point, but I don't know when. Belinda makes him block all communications when they go. Something about work not interfering, and that bollocks." He gives Harry a wry smile. "Not a bad practice in general, I reckon, but shit for something like tonight." He looks over at Malfoy, who's practically fucking grey, then back at Harry. "He'll be all right, lad. That one's made of sterner stuff than you might think."

"How did this happen?" Gawain says, sitting down with a heavy sigh. "Whitaker says there was no sign of an intruder. Just no guards and the doors to the cells wide open?"

Harry nods. He feels numb and raw inside. This isn't how he'd hoped his night would go. It'd been so full of promise forty minutes ago when he'd had Malfoy bent over his desk, trembling and gasping against his mouth. Now he feels as if the rug's been pulled out from underneath him. He wants to be over there with his team, checking on them, not caught here with Gawain, dissecting the hows and whys of suspects getting murdered in their own goddamned holding cells, for fuck's sake. 

"Jesus," Gawain says. "Where are we with the recording charms? I want to see who went down that fucking hallway all bloody evening." 

Richard Williamson, one of the chief inspectors whom Gawain had called in moments after Harry'd sent his own Patronus to the Head Auror, looks over from the window. "I've Jaimie working on them right now."

Harry leans against the edge of Gawain's desk. Walking down that corridor, seeing the holding cells open, the bodies slumped against the floors, their eyes wide open and empty, had rocked him to his core. This wasn't supposed to happen in the Ministry. They have bloody protocols in place, for Christ's sake. Security measures out their sodding arses, new ones, put in place after Voldemort had taken over the Ministry, in layers that aren't supposed to be able to be easily circumvented. His gaze drifts back to his team. Malfoy's looking at him, and Harry can see how shaken he is. 

"Go talk to him," Aubrey says, his voice low. "He needs his SIO. Whitaker does too."

With a glance back at Gawain, who's arguing with Williamson about how quickly said Jaimie can get the charm footage to them, Harry walks over the small, shaken huddle crouched beneath the arched window, Whitaker and Malfoy sitting on the sill, Zabini and Parkinson in front of them, as if they might be able to ward off the others.

"All right?" Harry murmurs, and he lets his hand settle on Malfoy's shoulder. Malfoy doesn't pull away, and Harry can feel him relax a bit beneath his touch. 

"My father," Malfoy manages to get out, and Harry rubs a small circle against Malfoy's rumpled shirt. 

"Saul Croaker's coming up," Harry says. "He'll know." Harry wants to run downstairs himself, to throw open Lucius Malfoy's cell and look at him, make certain he's still breathing and on his two feet. Who gives a damn if the Unspeakables have him on the floor, wands at his throat? The whole Ministry's on high alert right now, half the floors on lockdown, just in case, the lifts blocked, stairwells accessible only to approved personnel. Fuck, but Harry never thought he'd be worried about that sodding prick of all people. But he's Malfoy's dad, and Harry doesn't want Malfoy to have to face his murder. Not on top of everything else.

Malfoy looks away, his lips pressed together. "I can't," he says after a moment. "If he's…" He licks his lip, his brows drawn together, and his voice is thick. "I can't firecall my mother."

"I'll do it for you," Parkinson says, and she crouches in front of Malfoy, catching his face with her fingertips and turning it towards her. "I promise, love. I'll do it. No matter what."

Malfoy's mouth opens, then closes. He nods and he reaches for her hand, gripping it. Harry wishes he could touch Malfoy like that. In front of them all. He wants so badly to pull Malfoy against him and stroke his hair, telling him everything will be all right, even if he thinks that might be a lie.

For now, Harry has to leave that to Parkinson. He drops his hand from Malfoy's shoulder and looks over at Whitaker. She's staring straight ahead, her breath shallow and a bit uneven. She's been like this since Harry and Malfoy had found her in the holding cell corridor. She'd managed to tell him how she'd found the bodies, her voice trembling, then she'd just shut down. Harry wants to let her go home--or to a Healer. She's in shock, he thinks, and her hands are still shaking any time she unclasps them. 

Zabini's taken off his jacket and draped it over Whitaker's shoulders. "She'll be all right, guv," he says quietly. He bends over Whitaker. "Won't you, Althea?" His voice is careful and gentle, and Whitaker looks up at him, almost blankly, before she nods. 

"I'm fine," Whitaker says. The words sound as if they're being pulled from her, scratchy and raw. "I just…" She trails off, and her fingers tighten around each other again, her knuckles pale and bent, her almost non-existent fingernails digging into the backs of her hands. "He was my guv," she whispers. "Even if he was a shit…" 

Parkinson reaches over Malfoy's thighs to rest her hand on top of Whitaker's. "Just breathe," she says, and Whitaker draws in a ragged breath. Harry wishes that it didn't have to be tragedy that brought them all together, but he's damned proud of them right now for taking care of each other. He only hopes they have better news from the Department of Mysteries.

The door to Gawain's office flies open, nearly hitting the wall, and Croaker strides in, tall and lanky, his hair pure white and falling to his shoulders. He's dressed in a plain, black Unspeakable's robe, and his dark eyes are sharp and keen as he sweeps his gaze across the room. 

"Miss Parkinson," he says to Harry's surprise. "Your mother's doing well, I hope."

"Rather," Parkinson says, her voice calm. "Thanks for asking, sir." She stands up. At Harry's astounded look, she murmurs, "Second cousins or something through the Hirsch family. Better not to ask."

Croaker nods and draws off his gloves, sliding them into his pocket. "Lucius Malfoy is safe," he says, and Harry can feel the relief slump through Malfoy. He lets his hand brush against Malfoy's shoulder again. "The Department of Mysteries' holding cells appear to be far more secure than yours, Gawain." He raises a thick, white eyebrow. "Perhaps you might want to reconsider letting us look at your charms."

For a moment, Harry thinks Gawain might hex Croaker. Instead the Head Auror pinches the bridge of his nose and huffs. "Don't try to score points against me, Saul. Not tonight."

"Merely being helpful." Croaker looks at Harry. "Potter's here, Bertie. Richard. Antigone's in the corridor shouting at some poor fool." His gaze flicks back towards Gawain. "No Kingsley, no Mulgraves, and, most strikingly, no Proudfoot. How long are you going to keep your superiors out of this, Gawain?" Croaker looks a bit perturbed. "Albert is little more than a figurehead, we all know that, but he is ostensibly head of the DMLE." 

No one particularly likes Albert Proudfoot, Harry knows. He rose up to department head only because he was the least offensive candidate out of the post-war lot, a bit of milksop, in Harry's opinion. Croaker's right; Proudfoot's easily manipulated by those beneath him, like Gawain and Peasegood, as well as by his fellow department heads like Croaker. Sometimes that comes in handy. Harry doesn't think it will tonight.

"I want my ducks in a row before I go to Albert or Kingsley," Gawain says. "And there's no reason to pull Mulgraves and the Wizengamot into this yet."

Croaker frowns. "Yet." He looks back at Harry and his team. "Sergeant Whitaker found the bodies."

Whitaker glances up at him, her face pale but set. "Yes, sir."

"Has her wand been tested yet for spell residue?" Croaker turns back to Gawain. "It's only her word that she found them dead. How do we know she didn't kill them herself?"

"And do what with the guards?" Harry snaps. 

Croaker raises an eyebrow. "You, of all people, Inspector Potter, ought to know what can be done with a dead body. She killed them, then transfigured them into something easily Vanishable." 

"Bollocks," Malfoy says, and it surprises Harry. He looks back as Malfoy stands up. "She has no bloody reason to kill them all." His fists are clenched at his sides. "Dolohov did--"

Croaker looks amused. "You're suggesting Antonin Dolohov waltzed into the Ministry and--'

"No." Malfoy meets Croaker's gaze evenly. "But my father warned me that this went deeper than any of us think. And I believe him." A muscle in Malfoy's jaw twitches. "Someone in this Ministry wanted them dead. Someone who got rid of the guards and knew how to open the holding cells. So I think perhaps we should stop worrying about Althea Whitaker and look for whoever bloody well did this." 

A small smile quirks Croaker's mouth. "And why shouldn't I suspect you, Sergeant Malfoy? Only your father survived."

"I can assure you," Malfoy says quietly, "that if I were stupid enough to want to kill four witnesses and leave their bodies in their holding cells, I'd probably want my father dead too." He crosses his arms in front of his chest. "It's not as if we have a spectacular father-son relationship at the moment."

Croaker tilts his head in acknowledgement before looking over at Gawain. "The lad has a point about the responsible individual being inside the Ministry itself."

Harry lets his palm rest against the small of Malfoy's back for the briefest moment before Parkinson clears her throat. He glances back at her and frowns, then lets his hand drop. Parkinson's giving him a heated, almost angry look. "Don't," she says beneath her breath, stepping away from Zabini and Whitaker. 

Malfoy flushes, and he pulls back from Harry, turning towards Parkinson, who draws him over to the window, her mouth tight with worry and disapproval.

When Harry turns back towards Gawain's desk, Bertie Aubrey's watching him, an odd look on his face. Harry shoves his hands back in his pockets, cursing himself for being a fool. Parkinson's right. Harry's just so damned worried about Malfoy that he can't help himself. He needs to touch him, needs to know he's okay. It nearly kills Harry to turn away from Malfoy, to step closer towards his superior officers. Still, he's the SIO in charge of this team, and this is their bloody case, and he won't let Gawain take it from them. 

Whatever might have happened down in those damned cells.

There's a knock on the door, and an Auror not much younger than Harry sticks his head in, his dark ginger hair spilling over his freckled forehead. "Chief Inspector Williamson, sir?"

Williamson waves him in. "What do you have for us, Jaimie?"

"Not much, sir." Jaimie steps into the office, looking more than a bit overwhelmed by the men surrounding him. Halliwell follows him in. She's not the only female Chief Inspector in the force, obviously, but she's the one most trusted by Gawain, and Harry can't help but wonder if that irks her, to be surrounded like this by men who tend to shout over her. Halliwell has a reputation for being sharp and hard and fierce, and Harry thinks that must be the only way she's survived men like Proudfoot and Williamson, even Bertie and Gawain at times. 

Jaimie's holding a small, purple pulsating orb in one hand, the kind that floats near the corners of the ceilings in the holding cells and interview rooms. "When I saw it was purple, sir, it worried me. It shouldn't be that colour, yeah? Usually means there's a malfunction of some sort in the charm, and I was right. Watch." He taps his wand against the orb and for a moment Harry catches a glimpse of the holding cell corridor rising up from it, in minute detail, even down to the scuffs on the walls from the doors opening into them. The guards are there, Pritchett and Thompson both, walking through the corridor, stopping to speak, then Thompson laughs and turns away. 

Pritchett falls first, a burst of green light taking him down, then before Thompson can pull her own wand out of her holster, she's falling, a limp pile of woollen robes against the nubby grey carpet. Another burst of light, and the bodies are both gone. 

"Why get rid of," Gawain starts to say, and Croaker holds up a hand. He falls silent.

There's a shadow in the left corner of the recording spell, and what looks like the flick of a wand tip towards the recorder, then the image fritzes into static before fading away. The orb in Jaimie's hand stops pulsing. 

"It's all like that," Jaimie says. "All the recorders in the cells. Whoever did it knew how to keep out of sight long enough to disable the charms through the slots on the doors. Not a single glimpse of a face. Just the tip of a wand."

"Can we go on that?" Gawain asks. "Magiforensicology can tell us something, can't it?"

"My guess would be it's an ash wand," Parkinson says from behind Harry. She moves to his side. "I'd need to see more, though."

Bertie nods. "Might be able to get a magical signature too." He strokes his chin. "I just took Arthur Maxton onto my team. He's good with that sort of thing. I can set him on it. He was still in the bullpen when I came in. Didn't want to go home until he knew if we needed him."

Gawain runs his hands through his hair again. "Fine. Parkinson, go down to the crime scene, and tell Jones you're running liaison directly to me." He looks at Harry. "Any problems with that?"

Harry shakes his head. "Just as long as Parkinson's allowed to keep me and the rest of Seven-Four-Alpha in the loop." 

"I'll agree to that." Gawain frowns as Croaker starts to object. "You. Don't think about telling me how to run my department. I don't give a fuck how inviting it might seem." He looks back at Bertie. "Get Maxton on the signature now. I'm authorising full clearance for him. Access to the entire Auror database and anything the Department of Mysteries has shared with us. Do you have a problem with that, Saul?"

"As long as it's a database search and we have records of what files have been accessed, no." Croaker doesn't look happy, though. "There are sensitive materials--"

"It's a fucking magical signature," Gawain snaps. "Not state secrets. I think we'll be fine."

Croaker holds up his hands. "No objections."

Gawain takes a deep breath. "Then anything that's been said in this room is on a goddamned need-to-know only basis, do I make myself clear?" He looks around at all of them, and Harry recognises the scowl on his face. Gawain's bloody serious. "I'll be speaking to Kingsley shortly about this, and with Proudfoot too before morning comes, I'm certain. But at the moment, I want to know what forensics comes up with and what Maxton finds for signature. Bertie, you'll stay here for a moment. I want to speak to you before you go over. Saul as well. Richard, take Jaimie down and make certain there's nothing on any of those recorders that gets overlooked. Antigone, any joy on Arnie?"

"Not yet," Halliwell says, her voice grim. 

"Then track him down." Gawain stands up. "I don't care if you have to go to every bloody theatre in the West End. You find him." She nods at him, and Gawain looks over at Harry. "You. Get Whitaker and Malfoy home. Zabini too. I'm going to need you all in here early tomorrow." He glances at the clock on the wall. It's just gone half-nine. "Seven a.m., am I clear? I want a full writeup on the entire case against those four. Lucius Malfoy as well."

Harry nods. He's no fucking idea how that's going to get done. Not tonight. Not when he needs to make certain Malfoy's all right. That's his priority. Not bloody fucking paperwork.

"Speaking of whom." Gawain turns to Croaker. "You're certain Malfoy's safe?"

"I have three of my best Unspeakables guarding his cell tonight," Croaker says. "We've increased all the charms to our highest security level, and Granger and I will be staying in our offices tonight to make certain nothing untoward happens. Granger's on her way now."

Gawain looks over at Malfoy. "Sergeant Malfoy, does that ease your concern?"

Malfoy shifts from foot to foot. He looks lost. Young. "If Granger's there," he says finally. "Then, yes."

"All right," Gawain says. "You have your assignments. Get the fuck to them."

The meeting breaks up, and Harry turns back to his team. "Parkinson," he says, but she's already on the move. 

"I'll ring your mobile as soon as I know something, guv," she says, and then she's out the door, heading over to the crime scene, Harry's certain. 

He looks over Whitaker. "Can you make it home?" he asks.

Whitaker hesitates, then says, "I'd rather stay, sir. If Robards needs a write-up tomorrow, then I'd rather be working on that. There's nothing at home for me."

Harry eyes her. "You're certain." There's a bit of relief curling through him. He hates paperwork at the best of times. He's been putting off writing up what they have anyway for the WPS. 

"Yes, guv." Whitaker's pale but determined. "I need something to do. To take my mind off…" She looks away. "Seeing them. It's the only way I can help now."

"I'll stay too," Zabini says quietly. "Help Althea out if she doesn't mind." His gaze flicks towards Malfoy. "If you could get Draco home, though, sir, I'd appreciate it."

"I can take myself home," Malfoy says, his voice sharp, but when Zabini gives him an even look, Malfoy falls silent, glancing away. 

Harry puts his hand on Malfoy's shoulder. "Do you want to see your father?"

Malfoy hesitates, then he shakes his head. "If Granger's with him, then I trust her not to let his fool arse get killed." He won't look at Harry. "Besides they won't let us down there. Not with things on lockdown. I'm tired. Blaise is right. I should probably go home."

Harry has no goddamned intention of letting Malfoy go back to his flat. Even if his mother is there. Harry wants to make certain Malfoy's all right. It's not just his dad. What they'd done back in Harry's office had been raw. Rough. Harry's worried about Malfoy, about what it must feel like to be in that place, to be so open and vulnerable the way he'd been for Harry, and then to have all this bloody bollocks crashing down on him. 

"Let's get your stuff," he says, and he gives Zabini a look over Malfoy's shoulder. Zabini nods and mouths _thanks_ at Harry. 

To be honest, Harry's not certain he deserves it. Not yet at least. 

He follows Malfoy out of Gawain's office, not bothering to look back.

***

Draco's bloody exhausted when he stumbles out of the Floo and into the Grimmauld Place library, Potter catching him before he hits the arm of the sofa.

"Careful," Potter says, and his hands are gentle on Draco's arms. "You all right?"

All Draco can do is nod. He'd wanted to go home at first, to fall into his own bed, but Potter'd been worried about that, he could tell. And then he'd realised he'd have to face down his mother. He loves her, but he feels too bruised, too tender right now, and she'll hover more than Potter will. At least Potter will put him to bed, wrap his arms around Draco, lull him into sleep without asking questions. Draco would have to explain everything to his mother, and then he thinks she might understand some of it a bit more than he wants her to. She's too perceptive when it comes to his feelings for Potter.

And he does have them. Oh, so bloody much, doesn't he? They're churning inside of him, refusing to let him ignore them, reminding him each time he looks at Potter that there's a reason the man takes his breath away. 

"I need to tell Mother where I am," Draco says, and he can't look into Potter's face. Not right now. He's too afraid his own will give him away. 

"I'll send Kreacher over," Potter says. He pulls Draco up against him. "You need to rest. You're worn out, aren't you?" His fingers smooth over Draco's hair, tucking it behind his ear.

Draco nods again. He feels hollowed out. Gutted. "You ought to be back at the office, not watching after me." He rests his head on Potter's shoulder. "I can take care of myself." He doesn't feel like he can right now, but he doesn't want Potter to know that. "Kreacher can stay with me when he gets back."

Potter kisses Draco's forehead. "I'll go back later. When you're sleeping." 

"Whitaker's working through it," Draco says, feeling like a weak, incompetent idiot. "And she found them--"

"And Whitaker didn't get shagged the way you did beforehand," Potter says calmly. "Or have to worry for more than half an hour about her dad being dead too."

Draco looks up at him then. Potter's eyes are gentle. Warm. For a moment, Draco can almost pretend they're filled with love. He turns his head, swallows, his heart aching at that thought. "I should be there." He almost turns back to the Floo, but Potter's fingers around his wrist stop him. 

"Don't be an idiot." Potter's voice is soft. "You're not going to be any good right now to anyone, Malfoy. You need sleep first--at least an hour or two. Time to come down from the way your head's spinning, yeah?"

It's like Potter knows how he feels. Draco isn't certain if he's coming or going right now. He wants to sink down on the sofa, his hands in his hair, trying to ease the throb in his head. His whole body feels tight and tense, like a taut wand, ready to break. 

"That happens sometimes," Potter says. He brushes his knuckles across Draco's cheek. "What we did…" Potter trails off, and there's a faint flush rising on his cheeks. He looks almost self-conscious. "It can be overwhelming."

Draco takes a step back, but he doesn't pull away from Potter's touch. "I know," he says, his voice quiet. "But it doesn't mean I don't feel like I ought to be better than that."

Potter just gives him a long, even look. " _I'm_ overwhelmed, Malfoy," he says after a moment. "Touching you that way--feeling my hand strike that perfect arse of yours--" He stops, his lip caught between his teeth before he sighs. Draco wants to kiss his frown away. "It was intense for me. I can only imagine how you must feel. So I'm making the call for both of us. Sleep. At least a little. We'll go back in later, but we need to be ready to relieve Zabini and Whitaker if they need us to, yeah?"

When he puts it that way, Draco relaxes. It's easier to think of himself as the reserve to be called up rather than the weakling who couldn't manage to do his damned job because he was fool enough to realise he was in goddamned love with his superior officer. 

And that's something Potter can't know. Draco can't take the pity Potter would show him. 

"Go upstairs," Potter says. "Get in bed, and I'll send Kreacher over to your mum, yeah?"

"All right," Draco says. "But we're going back--"

Potter shuts him up with a kiss. It's slow and gentle, and it takes Draco's breath entirely away, making him sway into Potter, his fingers gripping at Potter's braces. When Potter finally pulls back, Draco feels as if he might slide to the floor, a boneless, limp puddle of love and lust. 

"Upstairs," Potter says again, his lips almost brushing Draco's, his hand smacking Draco's arse lightly. It's still sore from before, and Draco flinches just enough for Potter's brows to draw together. "Did I hurt you?"

Draco shakes his head. "Just tender."

A small smile curves Potter's mouth. "I could kiss it better."

"I think you already attempted that," Draco says, trying to keep his voice light. He can't, and Potter's gaze heats. A shiver goes through Draco, but he presses his hand against Potter's chest, pushing him back. "I'm tired."

Potter lets Draco push past him. "I'll be up in a moment," he says, and Draco's halfway up the stairs when he hears Potter's low voice against Kreacher's higher one. Draco trails his hand up the banister; it feels warm and smooth to his touch. 

For a moment, Draco thinks about taking the last flight of steps up to the room he'd stayed in at first with its bikini-clad Muggles on the walls and its faded Gryffindor banner. He's paused on the landing when the door to Potter's room creaks open, the scent of lavender drifting out from it, a warm golden glow coming from the doorway as the lamps inside flicker to life.

"Subtle," Draco says to the house, but with one last look at the shadowed steps leading higher up, he gives in. Potter would come up there anyway, he knows, once he realised Draco wasn't in his bed. 

Draco slides off his boots and his shirt and his trousers before crawling beneath the coverlet. He's half-asleep when he hears Potter's steps on the staircase, the treads creaking beneath his feet. 

"Hey," Potter says, pushing the door open. "You awake?"

"If I weren't," Draco mumbles into the pillow, his back to Potter, "then I would be now, you cretin." There's a soft thud of Potter's boots against the floor, then the quiet jangle of his braces coming off, the rasp of his zip being pulled down, the soft click of his glasses being set on the side table. Draco shifts on the bed, making room for Potter as he crawls in behind Draco. He's down to just his pants, Draco realises, and it feels brilliant to have Potter cupped behind him, Potter's bare chest pressed against Draco's back. 

Potter slips an arm over Draco, heavy and warm. "Kreacher says your mum's worried, but glad you're staying here."

"Did he tell her about Father?" Draco asks. He's awake now, and he watches the shadow of the tree outside, moving across the gauzy curtains. He doesn't want his mother hearing about the attack from the _Prophet_ or the morning news on the WWN whilst she's drinking her first cup of Assam.

"That he was safe." Potter's palm flattens against Draco's stomach. "I thought the details would be better from you in the morning."

It's the choice Draco would have made. "Thanks," he says. 

Potter presses his mouth against Draco's shoulder. "How are you feeling?"

"Exhausted," Draco admits. "But all right, I suppose." He's relaxing again, though, with Potter behind him, Potter's leg over one of his. It feels good to be held down like this, pinned to the bed by Potter's limbs. Something about it calms Draco, makes his breathing slow. Potter grounds Draco in a way that no one else has ever been able. Honestly, Draco thinks lying here, tangled together like this, is more intimate than anything they've ever done sexually. He feels vulnerable and small, in a way, whilst also feeling warm and cared for. He can't explain it; he's not certain he'd want to. But he lets his body unbend against Potter's.

They lie there silently for a while, Potter's breath a warm huff against Draco's neck, his hand curving softly around Draco's hip. 

Draco doesn't know why he says it. He'd meant to keep it secret, but there's something about Potter wrapped around him that makes Draco feel languorous. Safe. 

"Robards knows."

Potter stills. His fingers tense on Draco's skin. "Knows what?"

"About us." Draco leans back against Potter's chest. "He warned me off you when I got my sergeant's bars. Told me he wouldn't protect me if it came out. About us, I mean."

"He said what?" Potter's voice is low and dangerous. Draco shifts in his arms, looks back over his shoulder. There's a dark expression on Potter's face.

"You can't think he would," Draco says, rolling to face Potter. He touches Potter's jaw. "You're his Golden Boy. Our Lord and Saviour Harry James Potter. I'm just Lucius Malfoy's boy, Death Eater scum--"

"Don't you ever fucking call yourself that," Potter says fiercely, and there's something in Draco that cracks at the raw emotion in Potter's voice. "You're not. You never were. You never will be--"

Draco kisses him. Potter's fingers tangle in Draco's hair, and their mouths move against one another until Draco pulls back, his breath caught in the back of his throat. This is dangerous. He knows that. But he can't walk away from Potter. He doesn't think he ever could. "I know my place, Potter," Draco whispers. "It's been made clear to me from my first day on the force. I don't blame Robards. I'd do the same--"

"You wouldn't." Potter's hand cups Draco's cheek, and Draco marvels at the way Potter believes in him. Even if he is a damned fool. Potter's eyes are dark and huge in the moonlight. Draco thinks he could lose himself in them, like a sailor being lured into a siren's watery grave. "And fuck Gawain. I don't care what he said." Potter's voice is fierce. "I'll protect you, I swear to Merlin--"

"I told him I'd break it off," Draco says, and he doesn't know why he's telling Potter this, but he wants Potter to know, wants him to understand the choices Draco's making. "And then I turned around and ran to your bloody doorstep…" His voice breaks a bit. He swallows, his hand smoothing up Potter's chest. "I chose you, Potter. I want you to know that."

Potter's thumb smoothes over Draco's cheekbone. "You ought to have picked your career," he says softly. 

"I didn't want to." Draco watches him, wonders if he'll ever be able to feel this close to Potter again, if it's just a rush of endorphins and fear and worry sifting away, leaving him feeling as if he's floating on a cloud, wrapped against Potter. He clutches at Potter's side, his fingers digging into Potter's skin, as if he can hold onto him forever.

It's a stupidly foolish thought, and Draco knows it. 

They're both silent for a moment, then Potter's thumb traces the arch of Draco's eyebrow. "You're a fucking idiot," he says, but his voice is soft and the way he's looking at Draco makes it clear that he doesn't really believe that. 

"Maybe." Draco moves his head so Potter's thumb slides down his cheek. "Although, Robards did let it slip that he'd had an affair with Penelope Abbott from the Promotions Board years ago, so I'm not opposed to using that as blackmail if need be."

Potter laughs softly. "You would."

"He oughtn't to have mentioned it." Draco presses his face against the curve of Potter's throat, breathing in the sweaty-musky-lemongrass smell of him. He wonders how much longer this will last, how much longer before Potter tires of him and moves on. Is this how Durant felt? Does the man miss Potter even still? Think of him whilst he's lying alone in his bed? Draco doesn't want to imagine how it'll feel when Potter walks away from him, and he wishes he could leave Potter first, that he could make that choice before Potter can. 

He won't. He can't. 

Potter's scent is heady. Almost overwhelming. When Draco's lying here, pressed up against Potter, he doesn't think about anything else. Not his father. Not Robards. Not the angry look in Pansy's eyes when Potter'd pressed his hand against Draco's back. 

Circe, but Draco had needed that touch right then. He might have fallen apart without it; there's something about Potter's hand against him that calms Draco, makes him feel as if the entire world isn't out for him, bleeds that paranoia away until Draco can breathe again, his anxiety fading. 

Potter's like a potion that calms and restores Draco in a way he can't quite understand. All Draco can do is quaff Potter, hoping that by the time he runs out he'll be able to stand on his own two feet again.

Draco kisses Potter's throat, sucking lightly at the skin, and he loves the way Potter's breath stutters when he does it. He doesn't want sex, not right now, but he wants Potter to want him, and to need him. 

"We'll have to be careful," Potter says after a moment, and Draco realises he's still thinking about Robards. Potter's fingers card through Draco's hair. He's looks down at Draco when Draco pulls back. There's a reddish mark at the base of his throat, left by Draco's sharp teeth. "I shouldn't have touched you in his office. Parkinson was right about that."

"No one noticed." Draco leans his head against Potter's chest. He's so bloody tired now. He shifts his leg, pressing his knee between Potter's thighs. "They're too worried about the murders." He thinks he should feel something more about that, but it's just an empty blankness inside of him right now. His father's safe. That had been his deepest fear, and he's ashamed that most of that terror had been focussed around how he'd have to tell his mother, if he'd be able to deal with the monsoon of grief from her that he knows would overwhelm him. It hadn't even been a fear of not seeing his father again. Draco'd been almost relieved, and that makes him feel like a shit. Draco knows he loves his father, despite their differences, but he hadn't been that horrified by the idea of his father's death. Not as much as he thinks he ought to have been. He'd just been so fucking tired of it all. Of the drinking, and the lies, and the scheming, and the anger.

It worries him. Draco doesn't want to be that sort of son. Not even to his bastard of a father. He misses the Lucius he'd known as a child, before the drink had pulled him back from his family, made him mean and vicious and frightening. 

Draco will always hate the Dark Lord for that. For taking away his father and replacing him with his broken, empty shell of a bitter man. One that Draco almost wishes would take his last breath because maybe then Draco could actually grieve for his father, could give up the wish--hopeless now--that the Lucius of his childhood would come back, the proud, arrogant man who'd adored his son, thought he could do no wrong.

How those days have changed.

"What are you thinking?" Potter asks, and his hand slips down Draco's throat, over his collar bones, barely touching him, as if Draco's a fragile bird, too delicate to handle. 

Draco shakes his head. He doesn't want to talk about these feelings. Not with Potter. He forgets, sometimes, that Potter doesn't have a father, that he'd never known his. Draco wonders if that's easier than knowing the man your father had once been and seeing him tumble from that pedestal. 

"I'm tired," Draco says again, and he knows it's just a way of saying something he doesn't think he can. _I'm tired. I'm sad. I'm lonely. I'm frightened._

Potter holds him closer, lets his lips brush against Draco's temple. "You need to rest."

Draco nods, because it's all he can do, really. He doesn't want to explain to Potter what _I'm tired_ means, although he suspects Potter might already know. "Wake me in an hour or so?"

"Only if you actually sleep," Potter says. He settles against Draco, and it's almost too much, being held like this by Potter. Draco has to close his eyes, turn his head, before Potter sees too much in his gaze. 

Draco doesn't think he can sleep. Doesn't really want to, if he's honest. He just wants to lie here with Potter for as long as he can before they get up and face down the Ministry again. 

But Potter's breath is even and his arms are strong and warm, and Draco feels himself being lulled into a quiet state, his limbs loosening, feeling heavy and lazy, and before he can object, his eyes flutter closed. 

To his exhausted surprise, he sleeps.

***

Kingsley is already seated at the golden wood table, papers spread out in front of him, when Harry comes into the conference room. Gawain and Bertie Aubrey have their heads together on the far side, both grim and quiet. Antigone Halliwell is toying with an Auror-issue mobile, and Williamson is reviewing something on parchment and notating it with a pen.

"Harry, there you are," Kingsley's voice booms across the room, and Harry feels uncomfortable, hoping he's not the last one to the meeting. He'd come as soon as he could. Croaker looks up from the _Prophet_ on the other side of the table, a scowl on his lean face. "Do sit."

Harry sits at the end of the long oaken table surrounded by glass windows. There aren't that many more section heads to arrive, he realises, looking around him, although he wonders if Proudfoot will manage to attend and where Peasegood is sitting. He'd rather be on the other end of the table. 

Mulgraves comes in with a heavy satchel and a fierce glare. He softens when he sees Kingsley. "Minister." He resumes his glare for everyone else. "Chief Inspector Halliwell. Chief Inspector Williamson. Chief Inspector Aubrey. Head Auror."

He sits down between Kingsley and Harry. "Inspector Potter."

And there's the rub of it. Harry is much further down in rank than everyone else. He knows he's here as the SIO of Seven-Four-Alpha, but it's intimidating him that the meeting's all section and department heads, pretty much, and Kingsley of course.

Proudfoot finally swans into view, the conference room doors swinging closed behind him. Room is made for him at the side of the Minister. He sits down, a florid and rather unpleasantly moist wizard, with mousy brown, well-kempt hair and bespoke, subtly polka dotted robes. His portly frame is swathed in eggplant purple, and his tie has a diamond pin in it. He'd catapulted from Deputy Head Auror to head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement at the end of the war, in the same political move that had sent Kingsley into the Minister of Magic's office. Harry supposes Proudfoot's not the worst DMLE head they've had over the years; he's fairly certain Corban Yaxley holds that title from the War.

"Right," Robards says after his boss is welcomed. He swishes his wand towards the door, and it shuts swiftly. The room is swathed in secrecy spells. Harry can see them glimmer in the air. "Let's get down to brass tacks. We're here with an update on the murders of the four Death Eater accomplices in our holding cells last night. This is of highest secrecy, and everyone in this room is subject to the Wizarding Treason Act of 1274 if anything gets out to anyone not directly involved in the investigation. Do I make myself clear?"

The mood in the room sinks, and Harry sits up a bit more. This is serious stuff. But still, not everyone is here. He glances out into the hall, then back at Gawain. Shouldn't they be waiting for the head of the Hit Wizards?

Gawain clears his throat. "Through a series of overnight efforts, including tracking spells, magiforensicology, wand trace monitoring, and surveillance spell reconstruction, we've been able to identify the killer. Or, I should say, Bertie's team has, with close assistance from Williamson and Parkinson from Potter's team." He nods at the two chief inspectors, and they nod back. "Halliwell also provided invaluable information by tracking down witnesses and corroborating evidence for us." She gives a quick nod when Gawain looks at her.

"Who is it, man?" Proudfoot's voice is oddly pitched in the silence. Harry almost winces, and he can tell that Gawain is keeping his patience by a thread. His face is sallow, and he's gritting his teeth again, Harry'd swear to it. Harry's equally tense, if he's honest. He's no idea what they're up against, or whom: Dolohov, Yaxley, Selwyn's sister, someone worse? He supposes anything's possible.

Gawain sighs, and looks down at the table. "It was one of our own. It was Arnold Peasegood."

There is dead silence in the room. Harry's almost in shock--he loathes the man, but he'd never thought him capable of this. This is beyond criminal into almost sociopathic. He's absolutely stunned into silence, and from the looks of shock on everyone's faces, the others who were not in the investigation circle are as well.

"Arnie Peasegood, Head of the Hit Wizards, is a murderer and Death Eater accomplice?" Proudfoot's voice is grating on Harry's nerves, but he shares the horror in it. "Are we talking about the same Arnie Peasegood?"

Mulgraves snorts. "That's impossible. The man never would. We play Wizard's Chess on the weekends, he and I, and he's one of us. A good sort. You've bloody well got the wrong man, Gawain. I don't know what you're doing in this department--"

Gawain looks over at him. "I wish it were impossible, and I shared your sentiment when my chief inspectors informed me. But the evidence is too damning."

Croaker's face is calculating, and Harry can practically see the man's thoughts churning about. "Where are you holding him?" He's already one step ahead of everyone else, Harry thinks, or possibly even more.

"We don't have him in custody." Gawain looks over to Kingsley, who has a hand over his eyes. The Minister looks devastated. Peasegood had been a personal friend of Kingsley, Harry remembers. They'd gone through Auror training together. "Although Antigone did amazing work this morning and found his magical trace on a ferry headed out for Calais."

"It was a stroke of luck. The receipts were on his bank card." Halliwell exhales. "He was last seen by his wife yesterday afternoon."

"Wasn't he at the theatre?" Harry asks, and the whole table looks at him. "It's just Bertie suggested last night…"

"The tickets were for next week," Bertie says. "Antigone discovered he left his house at three in the afternoon.

"His wife--Belinda--hasn't seen him since," Halliwell adds. A quiet murmur goes around the table. "She's rather a bit distraught."

"Please tell me the papers don't know yet," Kingsley's voice is deep and quiet. His long brown fingers are massaging his bald temple now, pushing at his smooth skin. 

"As far as we can ascertain, the news hasn't broken yet." Gawain looks over to Bertie. "Have we heard anything?"

Croaker glances down at a mobile in his hand, then back up. "Well, I'm afraid you're wrong. My staff are reporting leaks to the print media and also WWN. Stories are expected within the hour. The ferry staff appeared to have talked to reporters, and Peasegood's neighbors as well."

Gawain swears, and Kingsley frowns. "I can't say you lot have made my job any easier," Kingsley says. "You know we have a delegation from Luxembourg coming tomorrow morning. They were due in at Azkaban on Monday, but they moved up their trip two days ago, and they're coming to London first. The Supreme Mugwump's on a bloody rampage about our purported incompetence in the law enforcement field, and I can't imagine this recent development will ease Babajide Akingbade's mind one whit." He sighs. "I think their second-ranking official in charge of magical affairs is coming too now, a German witch by the name of Charlotte Marquardt."

Harry sits up. "Oh, Lotte? She's tough but great. Rather fair as well. She used to be on the European Auror Force before she went up the ladder. Jake and I spent loads of time working with her."

He rather regrets it when the assembled group turns their eyes on him. Croaker looks drily amused. Gavin is rubbing the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. Harry sinks back into his chair, his shoulders hunching. They all think him young and brash, Harry knows, when in reality it's just that Harry's bloody thick sometimes. 

Kingsley clears his throat. "Then I'll expect you and Unspeakable Durant to be on the welcoming committee tomorrow morning."

Harry bites back a comment about it being Saturday. This isn't the time for forty-hour workweeks. "Yes, sir. Where would you like me to be?" Jake'll be furious with him too, Harry thinks. With good reason. Harry can't quite believe he managed to volunteer them for more work.

"I'll have Michael send you the information this afternoon." Kingsley turns to Croaker. "You can spare Unspeakable Durant from Granger's team?"

Croaker purses his lips, and for a moment Harry thinks he's going to say no. Which will keep Jake from hating Harry, but Harry also doesn't want to sit through Luxembourg meetings on his own. He knows how bloody boring they are. "Of course," Croaker says reluctantly, and Harry doesn't know whether to curse or be relieved. "He's been quite useful. It's a shame Graves will make us give him back one day soon."

Kingsley nods. "Play nice, Saul, and don't take the Americans' toys without asking. We need all the goodwill we can get after what's just happened."

It's beginning to sink in, Harry thinks. They've gone from the frying pan into the fire. And he's no idea how bad things are among the other Hit Wizards. He's never liked that branch of the services, if he's honest, but it must be terrible to lose a chief through a quadruple homicide. Draco had told him that Lucius thought the things they were investigating went deeper, and this certainly is deep enough. Deeper than they can easily survive, if Harry's honest. He'd never thought Peasegood smart enough to be a mole, but it's never the ones you suspect.

Gawain clears his throat this time. "All right. It's time to go into action. Chief Inspectors, please stay behind for a quick meeting--we need to coordinate teams. Harry, your team is still in charge of the investigation, but we are going to take the internal matter regarding Arnie--I mean, the suspect--up with Titus and section leaders."

Harry nods. "We've sent the details of the cases against Bates, Wrightson, Selwyn and Hopkirk to the WPS for their archiving this morning, although we're keeping the Dolohov and Malfoy cases active." Mulgraves nods at him in thanks. "And we'll continue doing what we can to aid in the search for Peasegood. It would be interesting to know if there are any sightings of him with Dolohov. However, nothing we've uncovered so far would have indicated any communication between the two of them."

Gawain nods grimly. "See what you can dig up. Oh, and compliment your team. They did a great job on the case write up."

Harry nods, a bit of guilt tucked in his gut. Zabini and Whitaker did the lion's share of it before he and Malfoy showed up at half-two this morning to send them home and finish it up. He'll need to take them out to lunch or something to assuage his conscience.

Proudfoot coughs delicately. "Gawain, are we sure Inspector Potter is up to the task? Wouldn't it be better to place one of these more experienced Chief Inspectors in charge of an open investigation like this?" He motions to Aubrey, Halliwell, and Williamson, who are silent. Harry wants to punch him in the face.

Gawain scowls. "We're not going to change things now, Proudfoot. We're short on available bodies as it is, what with all of the carnage in our own damn cells." Harry's sure Gawain's going to lose his temper. He's almost smoking about the ears now.

"Harry stays," Kingsley says. "He can receive assistance as necessary from superior officers." 

With a soft huff of relief Harry settles back into his chair. No one else says a thing.

Gawain collects himself. "Before we leave, there is one item of business left." He looks over to Bertie, who nods in answer. "I've asked Bertie here to step up as Deputy Head Auror. The post has been vacant since Albert stepped up to department chief, and it's high time that we strengthened our office. Bertie's had a sterling service record over the past forty-five years, and you all know the power of his tea." Everyone laughs, and the wave of relaxation does the energy of the room good. "I had to bribe him with more tea to accept, but he'll take the post on, effective immediately."

Bertie raises his eyebrows, visibly uncomfortable under the scrutiny of everyone. "It's always good to start in a crisis, as I reckon I won't mess things up worse," he says, which draws another laugh. "And I hope to be able to help Gawain with the same dedication and tirelessness he shows us every day as Head Auror. Even if he's shite a making a good brew."

There's a round of clapping and then Harry's getting up with the others, completely unsure of how he's going to break the news about Peasegood to his team.

"Harry," Gawain says to him. "A word?"

The rest of the section heads and department chiefs start to drift out of the room in small clumps, their heads together, their whispers drifting back across the conference table. Harry looks at Gawain. "Sir?"

Gawain stands up, draws Harry over to a window. "I'm counting on you, lad, to not fuck this up for us."

Harry feels his face warm. "I'll do my best."

"I know you will." Gawain hesitates, his eyes searching Harry's face. "Another thing. I didn't want to mention this in front of the others, but a complaint about you crossed my desk this morning."

Harry tenses. "From?"

"A gentleman you apparently punched last night at the Leaky?" Gawain looks a bit amused, and relief goes through Harry. Nicholas then. Not one of his team. Not Malfoy. "You weren't pissed, were you?"

"No, sir." Harry finds his hands going behind his back, his feet widening into a formal parade stance as Gawain studies him. He lifts his chin. 

Gawain's eyebrows go up. Harry meets his gaze evenly. "Would you like to tell me why you did something that stupid?"

Harry hesitates. "No, sir." Not if Gawain's already called Malfoy out for sleeping with him. If Harry admits he punched Nicholas in Malfoy's defence, well. Gawain's not a fool. He doesn't look away from the Head Auror. 

"Well." Gawain's watching him, his eyes narrowed. "In that case, you do realise I'll need to put the complaint into your official file. If you've no interest in explaining yourself, that is."

"I won't deny I did it, sir," Harry says. "But it was a personal matter, not a work matter. If that means you need to file it, then that's all right."

Gawain sighs. "It could affect the timing of your next promotion."

Harry nods. "I'm aware of that, sir." Gawain realising that Malfoy's still sleeping with Harry would be worse. 

"Jesus, Harry." Gawain sounds exhausted. "Get the fuck out of here, you idiot, before you do something that can end your career?"

Harry walks back to the table and picks up his notepad, his back ramrod straight. He meets Bertie's eyes across the room. The older man just smiles at him, and Harry nods. 

He escapes as quickly as he can.

***

Draco feels hungover as he walks through the Ministry hallways. Potter's in with Robards and the heads this morning; they'd both come in at half-two to send Blaise and Althea home to sleep whilst Potter and Draco finished up the remainder of the report. He hasn't seen Pansy yet. He suspects she's still in the lab if she hasn't reported back in.

He's tired still, and feeling more than a bit uncertain, still dressed in his clothes from the night before. Not that anyone will notice, he thinks. Half the Auror force stayed on after he and Potter left last night. The whole bloody department has been silent all morning, none of the clatter and clamour of the daily grind going on. Every Auror he's passed has been grim and tight-lipped, giving him a nod as he brushes by. They're all worried, he knows. He's no idea how the murders made it into the _Prophet_ overnight. Potter's probably being dragged through that at the moment; Draco can't imagine that Robards is best pleased. 

Draco rubs at his face as he pushes open the door to the stairwell with one hip. His eyes feel dry and itchy, like they've been scrubbed down with sandpaper. He doesn't do well with as little sleep as he'd got the night before. Still, he's grateful for the few hours he'd spent in Potter's bed, Potter's body splayed across his. He doesn't know how he'd handle today if he hadn't had that tiny modicum of peace amidst the maelstrom. 

His booted feet echo in the stairwell as he clatters around a landing. He doesn't know why he's decided to come down seven flights of steps instead of taking the lifts. Except he doesn't want to be around people, if he can help it. Doesn't want to see the curious looks and the sideways glances he'd get. Besides, he needs to move. His muscles feel tight and cramped from being hunched over his desk for hours, helping Potter finish the write-up of their case against Wrightson, Selwyn, Hopkirk and Bates. No pressing need to pass it on to WPS for anything other than archiving now, but perhaps it might help Seven-Four-Alpha pinpoint a reason behind a Killing Curse taking down the whole lot of them.

Draco's hair brushes his cheek. It needs washing. He hadn't bothered with a shower when Potter had pulled him out of the warm bed; he'd just cast a few cleaning charms to keep most of his stink at bay. Draco pulls a hair tie from his pocket, then gathers his hair in one hand, twisting it into a loose topknot and securing it with the tie. His father will comment on it, he's certain. Draco doesn't fucking care. He's just relieved Lucius is alive, and angry too, because there'd been that brief moment when Draco had thought perhaps his father was gone as well, and that in and of itself had made his whole body relax, the tension of being Lucius Malfoy's son seeping from him. 

He's ashamed of that. It'd only been an instant, the difference between one breath and the next, but Draco'd felt it so bloody intensely, and he hates himself for it, and he hates his father for being the sort of father that would cause Draco to feel a rush of relief at his passing. 

It hadn't been his proudest moment as a son. And so now he's here, finally going down to the Department of Mysteries, having sent an interoffice memo to Granger letting her know he's on his way. 

She's waiting for him when he steps out of the stairwell and into the black marble reception hall. Granger looks exhausted herself, her eyes puffy and shadowed. Her lipstick's rubbed off; only traces of bright coral lingering around the corners. "All right?" Granger asks him.

"Well enough." Draco falls into step beside her as she leads him down a corridor. "You look like you've been up all night."

Granger gives him a wry smile. "I don't sleep well on the sofa in my office," she says. "Besides, I kept walking down to check on your father."

Draco thinks he should express gratitude for that, but instead he finds himself saying, "You didn't have to."

"Maybe." Granger turns a corner, and Draco follows. "But your father was our responsibility, and if anything had happened…" She trails off, then sighs. "Harry owled me last night and asked me to take precautions."

Of course he did. Draco wants to object to Potter's interference, but there's a part of him that's glad of it, so he just huffs, then says, "Thanks."

Granger turns down another hallway, one that Draco remembers from his last visit here. There are three Unspeakables standing outside his father's cell, one on either side, then another across the hall. All of them have their wands ready, their bodies tense in defensive mode. 

"Stand down," Granger says just as Draco recognises one of them as Phoebe Rayne. He's no idea who the other two are, but each one of them is wearing the uniform of the Unspeakables, and they all dip their heads to Granger, relaxing at her command. 

"Ma'am," Rayne says, and she gives Draco a small smile. "Sergeant." She's obviously the one in charge in this corridor, Draco realises, and he nods his head in greeting.

"How is he?" Granger asks. 

Rayne hesitates, her gaze flicking towards Draco for a moment. "Unsteady," she says. "He won't take his potion--"

"The hell he won't," Draco says. He holds his hand out. "Do you have it?"

Granger nods, and Rayne pulls a small phial from her pocket. The potion inside is a sparkling turquoise, deep and shimmering as the Mediterranean in summer. She drops it into Draco's palm. "He has the tremors," Rayne says. "Don't be surprised when you see him."

The last time Draco's seen his father was Tuesday during his interview. He suspects Lucius won't be happy to have him visit today. Still, he steels himself. "Open the door," he says, then he adds, "please," because it's not Rayne's fault his father's a sodding twat. 

Rayne unwards the door, opening it.

"We'll be out here if you need us," Granger says, raising her voice. Draco's certain she wants his father to hear her. 

He steps into the holding cell. 

It reeks of sweat and desperation. His father's pacing along the wall, his whole body trembling, so badly at times that Lucius has to slap his hand against the wall, holding himself up so his shaking limbs don't collapse beneath him. When he looks at Draco, there's a tinge of madness to his eyes, and Draco has to draw in a slow breath not to turn around and walk out the door, leaving his father to his own damned demons. 

"Hello, Father," Draco says, and the door closes behind him. 

Lucius just looks at him blankly, and for a moment, Draco thinks that his father's mind may have actually broken. And then his father turns away, gripping the back of that damned uncomfortable chair the Unspeakables have left him. 

"They're dead," Lucius says, and his voice is raw. Uneven. 

"Yes." Draco steps closer. "Sit down." He thinks Lucius is going to defy him, the stubborn fool, and then his father drops into the chair, his hands shaking. Draco holds out the phial. "Drink."

Lucius shakes his head. "They might have poisoned it."

"Who?" Draco frowns at him. "The Unspeakables? They've a vested interest in keeping your sorry arse alive."

His father glowers up at him. "Don't be a fool. You think there aren't those in the Ministry who'd wish me dead?" His hands grip the arms of the chair, his knuckles whitening at the force. "You're not that stupid, Draco. They killed the others--"

"And left you alive." Draco shakes the phial at his father. "Circe only knows why, so drink, you stubborn fool. It's not going to kill you."

Lucius takes the phial reluctantly, turning it between his fingers. "You'd like to see me dead." 

"I'd have killed you years ago if that were the case." Draco sits on the edge of his father's bed. The mattress is thin; the metal edges of the bed dig into his thighs. "I want to see you well. Not a wretched shell of a man."

His father hesitates, studying him. 

Draco sighs. "I'm not poisoning you either. I just paid an outrageous amount of money to put a barrister on retainer for your case. If I killed you now, I'd be out that dosh, so just drink the goddamned potion, Father."

At that, Lucius uncaps the phial and quaffs it quickly, making a face at the taste. By the time he drags the back of his hand across his mouth, the tremors are settling. 

"Better?" Draco asks.

Lucius nods. After a moment, he says, "I've a barrister?"

"Achilleus Avery." Draco watches his father's face for any sign of recognition. 

"Waldrope's boy?" Lucius asks, frowning. "Bit of a ponce that one was. All on about wizarding rights and that bollocks, but what would you expect, given his parents. Waldrope and Beatrice always were wildly liberal for that family."

Draco tries not to throttle his father right there. "Well, that liberal ponce is your best hope of avoiding a life sentence in Azkaban, so try not to antagonise him too much." He takes in his father's dirty hair and stubbly beard. "Are they allowing you cleaning charms?"

Lucius shrugs. "When they remember." He scratches at his chin. "Or I do." Something in his eyes clouds, and that makes Draco worry. His father looks old and frail. "I lose track of time." 

"Would you like some now?" Draco asks, his voice gentle. When Lucius nods, Draco casts them, freshening up his father's hair, his body, his robes. Another sweep of his wand tidies the room, takes away the faint sour smell that's lingering in the air. 

His father looks more relaxed, his hair no longer dirty and tangled. It's soft against his shoulders, shining and clean. Lucius eyes Draco. "You ought to do the same for yourself. You look damned ridiculous with your hair like that."

"I'm fine," Draco says, his bad temper sliding back into place. Lucius looks away, as if he knows he's overstepped yet again. 

They sit silently together for a long moment. Lucius folds his hands in his lap.

"Do you know who killed them?" Draco asks finally. "Is that why you're frightened?" Because his father is. Draco can feel it rolling off of him, that familiar terror that throws Draco right back into the last months of the War. His father must be gagging for a drink, Draco thinks, particularly given the way he's twisting his hands together, thumbnails digging into the pale skin on the back of his palms. Draco's learnt his father's tells over the years. 

Lucius shakes his head. "No. No one I dealt with was from the Ministry. To be honest, other than the times I met with Selwyn, I spoke mostly with Antonin and Corban."

"Yaxley." Draco leans forward, his elbows on his knees.

"Would you like me to say it for whatever recording charm Granger has going?" Lucius's voice is dry. Bitter. "Despite the fact I'm not consenting to a bloody interview without my barrister present?" His voice rises; he glares at the door.

"I'm asking for me," Draco says. "It's my team that'll have to go after whoever did this, you know. Me and Blaise and Pans--"

"And Potter," Lucius adds, his eyes narrowing.

Draco just looks at him for a moment before saying, "And Potter."

Lucius falls silent. He slumps back in the chair, watching Draco. "I don't know who killed them, Draco," he says finally. "I know that Antonin had someone in the Ministry he worked with. A friend, he'd say, but it felt more like a handler." Lucius frowns down at his hands. They're dry, the skin on the backs loose and a bit wrinkled. "Like that person was pulling Antonin's strings, making him dance, whilst letting Antonin think he was in charge." He looks up at Draco. "Before you ask, I truly don't know who that person might have been."

For once, Draco believes his father. "It didn't surprise you that Yaxley was alive? They reported his death in the _Prophet_ ages ago."

"As they did with Antonin, and he showed up on my doorstep." Lucius shrugs. "I assume Corban faked his death the same way." A frown furrows his brow. "Corban always was a bit odd. He was quieter than usual when I saw him recently. Then again, Antonin can be overwhelming on the best of days." 

"What'd you talk about?" Draco can't help himself. He's an Auror after all. "The three of you."

His father's face shutters. "Not without legal representation, Draco. Not even to you. Nothing comes for free."

It was worth an attempt, Draco thinks. He studies Lucius, takes in his father's gaunt face, the deep shadows beneath his eyes, the way his gaze shifts to one side, the way his mouth trembles ever so slightly. His father's worried about something. Or someone. 

"You're frightened," Draco says. He still finds it strange to see his father like this. 

Lucius gives him a scathing look. "I'm not an idiot, nor do I have any desire to end up dead in my holding cell like those other fools. I want that barrister to see me. _Now_ , Draco."

"I'll see what I can do." Draco stands. He doesn't know what else to say to his father. Sometimes he wonders if this gulf between them can ever be breached. 

Or if he wants to breach it.

At the door, he glances back at his father. "Mother's worried about you, you realise."

The look that crosses his father's face is filled with pain. "I don't wish her to," Lucius says, his voice gruff, and he looks away. "She's well?"

"As much as can be expected." Draco doesn't understand his parents sometimes. They love each other desperately, and they'll wound each other with that devotion in a heartbeat. That terrifies Draco. It's his only understanding of love, and if that's what his feelings for Potter mean, he's better off pushing them away until they fade enough to be safer. More comfortable. 

He doesn't want his parents' grand love affair, with all the drama and destruction they've wrecked on one another over the years. Draco wants something quieter. Simpler. A gentle romance, not this idiocy of love that spirals one from the heights to the depths. Draco's too afraid that's what he feels towards Potter. An unhealthy obsession in which he puts his whole life on the line for so little in return. 

Draco glances back at his father. "I'll send her your regards, shall I?"

Lucius nods, and Draco raps against the door, hoping Rayne will open it promptly. 

She does. 

Granger's looking at him as he steps out, leaving behind the wellspring of his father's despair. "Well done," she says.

Draco straightens the cuffs of his sleeves, taking a moment to collect himself before he says, "You recorded it?"

"We always do." Granger meets his gaze. "We're allowed to bend a few legalities for national security."

"You think that's what this is?" Draco watches as Rayne wards the door again, her wand sweeping quickly into a complex series of twists and dips. "My father, a national security risk?"

Granger doesn't say anything for a moment. Her white shirt's a bit crumpled; there's a coffee stain on her sleeve. None of them are at their best this morning, are they? She looks over at him as they start down the hallway. "Someone," she says finally, "thought Wrightson, Bates, Selwyn and Hopkirk were a danger. And they've nearly managed to shutter our one national prison. Hassan Shah's barely able to keep a staff up right now, which makes it particularly vulnerable. If it weren't for Luxembourg stepping in--"

"What?" This is news to Draco. 

"They're sending a delegation this weekend," Granger says. "Extra Aurors from the Continent to help stabilise Azkaban, and an inquiry team to find out what the bloody fuck's happening in your department. Croaker got the notices this morning."

Draco frowns. "Fuck," is all he can say. 

"Pretty much." Granger turns a corner. Draco catches a glimpse of a figure down the cross-hall from them, tall and sandy-haired, and if Draco bloody well didn't know better, he'd swear it was Tony Goldstein. He looks back behind him as they hurry on. Fuck, but his mind's playing tricks on him now. Tony's a bloody businessman, not an Unspeakable. 

He hurries to catch up with Granger. "Is this common knowledge?"

"I've told Harry." Granger looks at him. "And you now."

Draco's taken aback. "You trust me?"

Granger considers. "No. But Harry seems to, and I trust him, so I'm making the choice to follow his instincts." Her mouth tightens and she strides faster, her heels clicking loudly against the marble floors. "So don't make me regret it, yeah?"

Draco has no damned intention of doing that. They stop in the reception hall, and Granger glances over at him. "You can find your way back up." She sounds tired; Draco understands all too well. 

"Thanks," he says, and that coaxes a small smile out of Granger. "I mean it."

"Get out of here, Malfoy," she says. "Before I start to suspect you've got a heart hidden under there somewhere."

Draco watches as she walks away. Granger's far more interesting than he'd realised in school, he thinks. A bit mad, a bit brusque, but he likes that about her. In an odd way she reminds him of Pansy, not that either of them would care for that comparison. 

Still, it's apt, and he finds himself smiling as he turns back to the stairwell and whatever shit's brewing now in the incident room upstairs.

Circe, he's getting so worn out from it all.

***

Althea looks up as Zabini walks into the incident room at quarter past noon, looking as bloody tired as she feels. She'd gone home when Potter and Malfoy arrived in the wee morning hours to relieve them from wherever the two of them had been kipping, but she hadn't been able to sleep. Every time she'd closed her eyes, all she could see was Marcus slumped against the wall of his holding cell, his eyes blank and wide and lifeless.

She feels guilty. He'd still be alive if it weren't for her, if she hadn't brought him in that day at Azkaban. She wonders what would have happened if she'd let him run. Zabini'd told her that was bollocks last night when she'd cracked on him, her exhaustion and emotions getting the best of her. She'd done her bloody job, he'd pointed out. She wasn't responsible for some bastard's poor decision making skills. 

It still feels surreal that it'd been Arnie Peasegood. Maxie'd been grim when he'd murmured it to her in passing in the hall, before even Robards and Aubrey knew. Althea's never been fond of the Hit Wizards. They're cocky and far too sodding sure of themselves for her liking. But the idea that their head had turned traitor is almost incomprehensible to her. Even more than Marcus being bribed. 

Althea knows there are corrupt Aurors. Everyone does. She's not so bloody idealistic that she thinks everyone she works with went into this career for God and country. There's decent money in being an Auror, if you can make your way up the ranks, and there's a certain amount of power as well. She's worked with Aurors she thought liked that part of it more than they ought to have, but she's felt the allure of it herself. She thinks it's why--at least partially--the Slytherins on her team have ended up here. Power is protection, and she's starting to realise they might need more of it than she thought. There are already whispers going around the bullpen about Malfoy and the fact that it's only his father who survived. 

That's bollocks, she knows, and she glances over to where Malfoy's sat at his desk, head bent over the preliminary forensics reports Parkinson and Jones have sent up, blond hair twisted up into a messy knot on the top of his head. He's still wearing his clothes from last night; they're crumpled and limp and in need of a good freshening charm. They're still confirming Maxie's signature results in the lab, but that's just a formality. Maxie's damn good at his job, and even the guv doesn't expect Parkinson to find anything different. 

Zabini sets a cup of coffee on her desk. It's the swill from the commissary, but it's still hot and caffeinated, and she's grateful for it as she picks it up. "Thanks," she says, and he nods, his eyes as bloodshot as her own.

"Figured you'd need a bit of pick-me-up." Zabini looks over at Malfoy. "The guv around?"

Malfoy rubs at the bridge of his nose, leaving behind a small smear of ink from the quill in his fingers, a blue smudge against his pale skin. "Robards called him into another meeting," he says. "The Ministry press officers are in an uproar over the _Prophet_ article."

Zabini drops into his chair. "Any idea on who leaked that?"

Althea shakes her head. "Could have been anyone. It's not as if half the force wasn't called back in by midnight."

"A third more likely," Malfoy says, but a bit absently. "But Althea's right. There weren't enough specifics in Orla's report to indicate it was anyone who knew anything. So my suspicions are on one of the crime scene Aurors. You know they gab to anyone."

None of them can argue that, although Althea suspects Parkinson would try if she were down here with them. Althea wishes she were; she finds Parkinson oddly calming in her tart, sharp-tongued way. Malfoy and Zabini tend to unsettle Althea, making her feel as if she always needs to be on her guard. Zabini'd been kind last night, though, more so than Althea had expected from him. He's protective of Malfoy, and she understands that. They've been friends since childhood, after all. Althea wonders what that's like. She's never been a complete loner, but her circle of friends has always been small. She'd been the strange one at Hogwarts, never feeling as smart as her Ravenclaw peers, her mind coming at her academic tasks in a more haphazard way, her thoughts skipping around instead of being methodical and precise. She'd exasperated her entire dormitory more than once, and even her closest friend, Tullia Clearwater, had told her once she was the worst Ravenclaw she'd ever seen. 

Althea hasn't spoken to Tullia in years now, not since Tullia's wedding back in 2003. She wonders how she's doing. If she's happy. Their lives had just drifted off into such different places. She wonders what it would have been like if they'd gone through something as intense as Auror training together.

Zabini takes a sip of his own coffee, then grimaces. "Well, we'll all pay for whoever was that fucking stupid." He scowls. "Orla Quirke's turning into a right little Rita, isn't she?"

Malfoy sets his quill down. "She's trying to make her name," he says, and he sounds almost reasonable. "Besides, she's a journo. They're all bastards."

"Not all of them." Althea can't help herself. When they both look at her in surprise, she shrugs. "My mum wrote for the _Prophet_ before she died. Dad still sometimes does bits for Muggle papers." She doesn't mention that they're all local rags that pay just enough for a good night--for her father at least--down the pub. 

"Apologies," Malfoy says. Despite his sullen frown, she thinks he means it. "It's just my experiences with journos hasn't been that brilliant."

"Some are shit," Althea admits. "Rita's a fucking liar half the time. Mum always hated her--the things she'd say when she thought I wasn't listening." Althea laughs a little. Her mother had always sworn like a sailor; Althea'd known three grammatical ways to use the word _fuck_ by the time she started primary school. "Orla's not half-bad, though. She's pushy, but she's not publishing outright slander." She's read the article from this morning. Nothing in it had been outrageous; there hadn't been much detail, but enough to make it clear there was something untoward going on in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, which is all Althea suspects Orla wanted. She'd shared a dormitory with Orla for seven years. She knows how the woman thinks. "Yet," she adds.

And it's not as if Orla's wrong, as much as Althea wishes she were. There's something going on in the Ministry, something that leaves her with a sour stomach and uneasy heart. From the looks on Malfoy and Zabini's faces, she's starting to believe they feel the same. 

"We'll see," Zabini says with a sigh, and they fall silent, each of them turning to the work on their desks. 

It's all they can do right now. One foot in front of the other, one task marked off the whiteboard before they move to the next. 

There's something about the simple rhythm of police work that calms Althea, makes her think that maybe they can deal with whatever shit's coming down the line towards them. They can't be prepared for it, not really, but at least they have the mechanisms in place to shovel it out of their way when it lands, pack it up into neat little packages and dump it on the bloody Wizengamot's doorstep.

Thank fucking Christ for the shelter of paperwork. Althea'd learnt early in her career that detailed records could make a problem someone else's, not hers. Right now she's hoping that'll be the case now. She can't handle Marcus's death, and she knows Zabini's feeling culpable for Hopkirk's. If only they'd asked different questions. Pressed harder for answers. Tried to find out if the prisoners felt safe, or if they were frightened of someone's retribution. 

Althea closes her eyes, breathes out, tries to let the knot of regret that's twisted up inside of her disentangle. It can't. Or won't. She's not certain which. 

"It'll be all right," Malfoy says, his voice quiet, and she looks over at him. "It's not any of our faults, yeah?"

"Yeah," Althea says, her voice tight. She still feels responsible. 

Malfoy just watches her for a long moment, then he bends his head back to the forensics report. There's nothing left to be said, Althea thinks. 

The only thing they have left is to work.

She picks up her quill again with a soft sigh.

***

When Draco stumbles out of his Floo at nearly seven, tired and longing for nothing more than a hot bath and a glass of wine, he's surprised to see his cousin Teddy sitting in the foyer of his flat, toy figures on brooms sweeping past him. Teddy's not expecting him either; in a flash the boy's hair goes from turquoise to a bright purple then back again as he looks up at Draco solemnly.

"Hello, Teddy," Draco says, and he squats next to the eight-year-old. "Your nan's visiting, is she?"

Teddy nods, his eyes wide. He's always a bit quiet around Draco, not that Draco minds. One of the figures settles on Teddy's shoulder, both of them watching Draco uneasily. 

"Playing Quidditch, are we?" Draco'd had a set of England players like this when he was Teddy's age, and he'd adored them.

"Quodpot," Teddy says, and his eyes light up. "Uncle Harry gave 'em to me for my birthday. He brought 'em back from New York. They're brill, yeah?"

Draco feels an odd flare of jealousy. He'd nearly forgotten that Potter was Teddy's godfather, and the joy on his little cousin's face makes Draco so very aware of the distance between him and Teddy. "They are." He holds out a finger; the small figure on Teddy's shoulder hops onto it, and Draco brings it closer, squinting to read the name on its jersey. "Georgson?"

"He's the captain." Teddy snaps his fingers and Georgson takes off from Draco's hand, zipping around the Floo mantelpiece, then landing back on Teddy's shoulder. "I like him best."

Draco stands up. "Well, should you care to expand their playing field, you can take them into the sitting room as well," he says. "Just be careful of the glass doors on the bookcases."

Teddy's face breaks out into a wide grin. "Wicked," he says, and he scrambles to his feet, calling for his squad to follow him. 

Draco hangs up his satchel by the door and slips off his boots, heading for the kitchen where he can hear the soft murmur of his mother's voice. Potter'd asked him to come home with him tonight again, to sleep at Grimmauld Place, and there's part of Draco that wishes he'd said yes. But he'd felt as if he needed to come home to his mother, needed to see her after his conversation with his father this morning, and Potter had just nodded and touched Draco's hand, telling him to firecall if he needed anything.

For a moment, Draco thinks about turning around, heading back to the Floo and to Potter's bed. 

He can't let himself. Not tonight.

Narcissa looks up as he comes in. "You're home early," she says, and there's a faint flush to her cheeks that Draco's quite certain is due to the half-empty bottle of wine sitting on the island counter between his mother and his aunt. 

"I am," Draco agrees, and he leans over to kiss his aunt's cheek. "Aunt Dromeda. I take it Mother finally firecalled."

"She did." Andromeda's eyes are bright from the wine as well. "Silly thing thought I'd want nothing to do with her."

Narcissa reaches out and catches her sister's hand. "You'll understand why, though," she murmurs, and there's a world of pain and heartache in her voice. "I've been such a terrible sister."

"You have," Andromeda says in that delightfully blunt way of hers that Draco's grown accustomed to. Her smile softens her words. "But nothing's set in stone, Cissy. You of all people know that." She squeezes Narcissa's hand before looking over at her nephew. "And you've had a shit day of it, or so the papers would have me think."

Draco's already pulled a fresh wineglass from the hutch across the kitchen. He takes the wine bottle from his mother and pours himself a glass, taking a sip before he says, "We're dealing with it."

Andromeda gives him a sympathetic look. "It can't be easy."

"I'm tired," Draco admits. "I only slept a few hours last night."

His mother's gaze is sharp and unsettling. "Potter assured me he'd make certain you rested."

Draco feels a flush go over his cheeks. "Mother." He can't stop his gaze from drifting over towards his aunt, who hides her smile behind her wineglass. "What have you said?"

Narcissa looks put out. "Only the truth. That you've been spending time at Grimmauld Place." 

Bollocks. Draco sets his glass down with a thump and a glare his mother's way. "Merlin's bloody tits--"

"Language," his mother says, her mouth pulling down at the corners. "Teddy's just around the corner."

Draco counts to ten mentally, lifting his wineglass to his mouth. He takes another sip, letting the wine slide over his tongue before swallowing. He looks over at his aunt. "Whatever she's told you, please feel free to disregard."

Andromeda just quirks an amused eyebrow at him. "It's no difference to me where you sleep." Her face softens. "Harry's a good lad, though."

"He is," Draco admits, and it's enough for his mother to give him a sharp look. Draco turns away, but not before he catches the thoughtful expression on his aunt's face. He feels his cheeks heat again, and his fingers tighten along the stem of his wineglass. Perhaps encouraging his mother to mend things with his aunt hadn't been his brightest idea. He hadn't reckoned with the fallout for his own life. Or the way it would bind him and Potter one step closer. They're already living in each other's pockets as it is, and Draco doesn't want to have to destroy everything he's worked so carefully to build up when this thing with Potter goes tits-up. As it's bound to do.

Teddy's laugh echoes from the sitting room, followed by the sound of something hitting the floor and a soft _damn._ Andromeda sighs and slides off her stool. "I'll go check on him."

Draco waits until she's out of the room before he turns on his mother. "You told her about Potter?"

Narcissa gives him an even look. "I merely said you'd been staying over at Grimmauld Place recently. She inferred the rest." Her eyes flick away, and Draco knows she's not telling the entire truth. 

"Mother." Draco sets his wineglass down on the counter. "What aren't you telling me?"

His mother doesn't look at him; she twists her own glass between her fingers, her thumb rubbing up and down the stem. "Kreacher says the house is happier. It likes you being there."

Draco frowns. Merlin, but that damned house is driving him mad. "Stop talking to the bloody house elf."

"He's lonely." Narcissa looks up then. "Kreacher and I were friends when I was younger, you know. He watched out for Dromeda and me whenever Bella went on one of her rampages. So did Regulus, even though he was barely in long trousers by then." 

"And Potter's godfather?" Draco can't help but ask. He's curious about that room at the top of the staircase that Potter'd settled him in when he'd first woken up in Grimmauld Place. Besides his mother almost never talks about her family. Not any longer. Not after Bella went mad. "What about him?"

Narcissa hesitates. "Sirius." She smiles faintly. "He was lovely, really, when he wanted to be. Your father hated him, of course. And Sirius had no love for Lucius, so I suppose it didn't matter. I don't think Sirius ever forgave me for marrying Lucius, though. He thought him a--how did he put it?"

"An overblown twat obviously compensating for a small prick," Andromeda says from the doorway. She looks over at Draco. "Apologies."

"He wasn't wrong." Draco sets his glass on the island counter as his aunt takes her seat again. "Not that I can speak to the latter."

Narcissa's cheeks pinken. "I can."

"Absolutely not," Draco says firmly, pointing a finger at her. "Not one bloody word, Mother."

His mother just laughs into her wineglass, but when she sets it down, her face is sober. "Have you seen him?"

Draco doesn't have to ask to whom she's referring. "This morning," he says. "Father's safe. Impossible, as always, but safe. And he sent his regards."

"Good." Narcissa's shoulders relax; Andromeda touches her hand lightly, and Narcissa gives her a faint smile. "I'd like to see him at some point." She hesitates. "When he's ready."

"I think he'd like that," Draco says. He studies his mother. "Are you really going to forgive him for what he's done?"

Narcissa's quiet for a moment, then she says, "It's not always like that, love. I don't know that I'll ever be able to truly forgive Lucius. Or that I want to. He's done quite a lot to cause both you and me a great deal of pain. Still, he's ill." She looks over at Draco. "I'm not excusing him, but he's had problems with drinking since our first years of marriage. You didn't notice. You were a child, and I did everything I could to keep it from you. Your father kept it under control as best he could until the Dark Lord--" She breaks off, her mouth a thin, tight line. 

"It's all right, Cissy." Andromeda's fingers curl around her sister's. She looks over at Draco. "I'll be the first to call your father a bastard," she says. "He encouraged my parents and my sisters to strike me from the family when I married Ted. But your mother's right. He was ill. Is still ill, as far as I know. It doesn't mean Cissy has to forgive him. But if she understands him...well." The gaze she turns on Narcissa is gentle. "That's her prerogative."

Draco doesn't know what to say. He knows more than his mother thinks he does. He'd seen the decanters in his father's study, watched them go down steadily each night when he was home from Hogwarts. He remembers his father's sudden bursts of temper at the dinner table, when his mother would motion for the elves to hurry Draco away before it got too vicious. "How'd you put up with it?" he asks after a moment. 

His mother pulls her hand away from Andromeda's, sits up on her stool, her shoulders straightening, and she's the steely woman Draco remembers from his childhood, the one who would only allow herself to bend so far, even for the Dark Lord, whilst her husband grovelled at his feet. "I loved him," Narcissa says. "There wasn't any putting up with it, Draco. Your father knew my line, knew how far he could push me before I'd push back. There are things about our marriage that you never saw, that you can't understand even now because whilst you're a grown man, you're still my boy, and we're still your parents. It wasn't easy at times, and you've forgotten the weeks I went away with you, the holidays in Nice and the visits to the Bulstrodes and the Greengrasses."

Draco hasn't, really. He'd just never realised why they'd gone to stay with their friends. He hadn't cared; he'd been a child and all that had mattered to him was playing Quidditch in Millie's gardens, both of them trying to teach her brother Henry how not to fall off a broom. "Because of Father," he says, and bits of his childhood shift into focus in ways he'd never have imagined. 

"When I'd had enough, yes," Narcissa says. "Lucius loved both of us. Still does, whether or not you want to see it. But there were moments when I had to put my foot down, when I couldn't take the evenings he'd spend in his cups after he'd argued with Abraxas or he'd gone out with his friends." She tucks a stray lock of hair back behind her ear, and she looks so young and fragile. Draco can't believe she's fifty-one now, that he's twenty-six and half her age. There are times he feels like he ought to still be waiting for the Hogwarts Express. 

"I never meant for us to be caught up with the Dark Lord's circle." Narcissa looks between her son and her sister. "Lucius wasn't at first, but when his father objected to his friendship with Andrew Nott and Evan Rosier, it just made Lucius more eager to join their ranks. I wasn't paying attention at the time. Honestly, I just wanted a child, and it was so difficult at first. I couldn't get pregnant, and then when you came along…" Narcissa touches Draco's face. "You were a few months old before I realised what Lucius had found himself caught up in. And by that time Bella and Rodolphus had dragged him deeper into the fold, and I didn't know what to do." She looks over at Andromeda. "I ought to have come to you, but I was afraid Mother'd find out and--" She breaks off, turning her face away. "I'm so sorry."

Andromeda stands up, moving to wrap her arms around her sister. "You were an idiot," she says into Narcissa's hair. "But it's not as if you haven't paid for it, yes?" She kisses Narcissa's temple. "It's in the past, darling, and we'll be over it soon enough." Andromeda meets Draco's gaze. She holds out an arm to him, and Draco finds himself pulled into her embrace as well. "I'll forgive you, but only if you promise to try to forgive yourself." 

Draco draws in a slow breath, letting his aunt smooth wide circles across his back. He wonders if he could be kind if he were in her shoes. He doesn't know that he'd be able. His aunt has lost everything--her parents, her sisters, her husband, her daughter, her home. And yet she's still able to welcome him and his mother back, the prodigal children that they are. 

"Thank you," his mother whispers, and there, in the warm lamplight of his kitchen, surrounded by the remnant of his family, Draco feels as if he has come home, as if perhaps the scarred Mark on his arm can be if not forgotten at least forgiven. 

He closes his eyes and, for a moment, Draco feels free.

***

The knock at Pansy's door takes her by surprise. She has files spread across her kitchen table that she's brought home, detailed forensics reports on the holding cell crime scenes, all four of them, along with graphs of Arnold Peasegood's magical signature. It's not that she doesn't think Maxie's right. She does; all the evidence points to Peasegood as their murderer. But she's been through enough Wizengamot trials to know that her department has to document every last detail lest an enterprising barrister use a small oversight to have a mistrial declared.

So she's sitting here at nearly nine on a Friday night in her softest pair of jersey shorts and a Gothic Bloody Rose t-shirt from a Hogsmeade Halloween concert Blaise had dragged her to back in their training days. There's a hole at the neckline, her hair's pulled up into a messy bun, and she'd tossed her bra in the corner of her bedroom five minutes after Flooing back home, so she's nowhere near properly attired for visitors. She tries to ignore the knock, but it comes again, and she pushes herself up with a curse, praying it's not her mum. At least it can't be Daisy; she's back in the States, or so Camilla had said when she'd firecalled earlier in the week to let Pansy know exactly how badly she'd failed her during Camilla's Midsummer party. 

Pansy throws the door open. "What do you--" She stops short at the sight of Tony bloody Goldstein on her doorstep, a loaf of fresh-baked challah in one hand and a bottle of wine in the other. 

"Hey," Tony says, and Pansy crosses her arms over her chest, trying to make it less obvious that her tits are hanging free. From the look on Tony's face, she's fairly certain she's failed spectacularly.

"What are you doing in Camden?" she asks when her voice starts working. He looks brilliant in a neatly tailored suit, his tie already off and stuffed in his pocket, judging from the bit of purple silk she sees sticking out from it. "You hate Camden."

"Gut Shabbos to you too," Tony says. He waves the challah beneath her nose; the scent of warm yeast makes Pansy lean against the door, her mouth watering. "Thought I'd come by. Light some candles?" He glances out the window in her hallway. The sun's just beginning to set. "I think I'm on time. Close enough."

"Your wife's supposed to do that." Pansy eyes the bottle of wine. It's an expensive kosher wizarding vintage from France. Tony always did have good taste. 

Tony just looks at her, his hair falling over one eyebrow. "I don't have a wife."

Pansy snorts. "Yes, you do."

"Well, she doesn't consider herself to be that," Tony says, "and I have a loaf of challah and a bottle of wine that're needing a blessing, so how'd you like to say it with me?"

He's terrible, and he knows it. Pansy leans her head against the door. "It's a terrible idea." 

"We've always been good at those." Tony's watching her, and Pansy worries her lip between her teeth before she gives in and opens the door wider. When Tony brushes past her, she can smell his cologne, musky and cedary with the hint of neroli, and she wonders if it's the same bottle she'd given him for his birthday last year. She's going to hate herself for this, she thinks. Her pulse quickens.

Pansy leads him into the kitchen, sending her files back into her satchel with a sweep of her wand. 

"Working from home?" Tony asks as he sets the wine and the challah on the kitchen counter. He turns and leans against it, his eyes taking in her dishevelled appearance. 

"Nothing that concerns you." Pansy pulls a pair of silver candlesticks from the china cabinet and sets them on the table, taking a set of short, stubby white candles from the pantry. "So don't pry." She glances over at him. "Also, I'm not your mum, so don't expect me to cook for you. I'll light the candles, but you're ordering a curry if you're hungry. I've already eaten." She's lying, but she doesn't want him to stay. If he stays, well, who knows what could happen?

Tony just gives her a wide smile, and Pansy wishes he didn't make her knees go weak. "The last thing I think of you as is my mum. Trust me on that."

"Not your wife either," Pansy says evenly. She takes a silver goblet out of the cabinet. "Open the wine."

"Maybe you should have been," Tony says, almost under his breath, and Pansy stills. 

She looks over her shoulder at him. "Don't, Tony," she says softly. He meets her gaze, and there's something hot and bright in it that makes her body shiver. 

"Pans," he says, and she turns away, reaching for her wand. 

"Wine," Pansy says, and she waits for pop of the cork. He comes up behind her, reaching around to pour the wine into the goblet and to lay the challah on the table. Pansy barely waits for him; she's already touching the tip of her wand to the candle wicks, one at a time, watching them spark into flame before she circles her hands three times over them, pulling the light towards her before she covers her eyes with her cupped fingers. 

The ancient words spill from her tongue, light and melodic, as she sings them the way her mother had taught her and Daisy both, their father watching indulgently each Friday night from his chair at the table. She drops her hands, watching the flames shiver in front of her. Tony's beside her, and this feels all too achingly intimate, him by her side as the candles burn bright. There'd been one time when she'd hoped this would be the two of them every week, sharing this ritual they'd both grown up with. And then he'd chosen Eva over her, and even though Pansy understands why, even though she thinks it might have been the right choice for both of them at the time even if they were too young, it still hurts, deep and quiet within her.

She starts to turn away, but Tony catches her hand, reaching for the goblet of wine. His voice is quiet as he says the Kiddush, the long version that Pansy'd never had the patience to memorise properly, none of the Hebrew tripping his tongue the way it does Pansy's at times. Pansy watches him, the candlelight flickering across his face. Fuck, but she still has feeling for him, and she hates that about herself, she thinks, as she sips the wine when he hands it to her, as she takes the bit of challah he breaks off before saying the Motzi. 

It's almost too much for her, this longing, and her throat aches with the pain of it before she can pull back, wiping the corners of her mouth with her thumb as she swallows the sweet, eggy bread. Pansy hasn't done this in weeks. Months, really, if she's honest. Daisy's always been better than her at actual practice; Pansy finds it overwhelming. Uncomfortable at times. 

"Why are you really here?" she asks, moving across the kitchen, her bare feet padding lightly against the wooden floor. "Because I bloody well know Michal would have welcomed you to her door with open arms and a loaded plate of food tonight."

Tony slides out of his jacket, hanging it over the back of a chair. He sighs, walking over to her refrigerator and pulling out a block of cheese and some butter. "Eggs?" he asks, and Pansy gets them for him as he reaches for a bowl from her cupboard. He still remembers where everything is, and watching him move about her kitchen with practiced ease makes Pansy's heart clench. 

"Tony," she says, and he cracks eggs into the bowl, dicing up the cheese with a flick of his wand. 

"I read the _Prophet_ ," Tony says finally. He sets a cast iron pan onto the hob, melting butter into it. He looks over at her. "And listened to the WWN today."

Pansy sits down at the table, watching him. "The murders then."

Tony doesn't say anything for a moment. He pours the eggs and cheese into the pan, looking down at it. His shoulders are tense, hunched. "You can't blame me for being worried. Your name's splashed all across the coverage--"

"Along with Blaise's, and Draco's, and Potter's, and Althea Whitaker's." They've always argued about this; Tony's always been concerned that Pansy'd be hurt in the line of duty. She's never managed to get him to realise that most of what she does is behind a bloody microscope. "It's not that big of a deal."

Tony flips the omelette. "This is different."

"How?" Pansy doesn't want to argue. She wants to sit back down with her files and sift through them to see if there's anything she can find that will make it easier for them to nail Peasegood to the bloody wall once they find him. 

"I just think you should be careful," Tony says. He glances back over at her, and there's a look on his face that Pansy doesn't quite understand. "We'll eat first, then we'll talk."

Tony turns back to the omelette and finishes it on the hob, then divides it and slides it onto two plates. It's fluffy and warm, and the perfect simple meal with challah and wine. They sit at the table together and eat, quiet in a way that only longtime acquaintances can be quiet. Tony's in his shirt sleeves. Pansy is unrepentant in her t-shirt and shorts, but the way Tony looks at her makes her feel like she's dressed in velvet and diamonds, like she's perfect the way she is. Pansy pulls at a morsel of bread, wondering why life can't just be this simple, why she can't just wake up to a world where this is okay.

But she and Tony have never been this way. They've never been easy.

"So," she says, twirling her wine glass in her fingers, her plate empty. "I believe you said we'd talk."

Tony nods, wiping his mouth on a napkin, then setting it aside. "Godunov."

"Who has nothing to do with the case I'm investigating," Pansy points out.

Tony doesn't say anything for a long moment. "Perhaps not."

Something about his voice makes Pansy look over at him. "There's a _but_ there. I can hear it."

"It's not…" Tony trails off, then he lifts up his wine glass and takes a long sip before setting it back down again. "Look, your name's splashed about in the _Prophet_ , and I've heard he's angry. About something that happened last night?"

Pansy wants to laugh. "You mean when he tried to chat me up in the Leaky--terribly, might I add--and my friends told him to fuck off?" She shakes her head. "Has he really been banging on about that? Please tell me it was in front of my father. Daddy'd be horrified." She reaches for her wine. "At him, of course. Not me."

Tony just looks at her. "Godunov is dangerous, Pans. Very dangerous."

"So you've said." Pansy frowns at him over the rim of her wineglass. "Although you've not said how you know."

"Pansy--" Tony stops and looks at her, his eyes impossibly warm. "I'm always looking out for you. Always."

Pansy hides in her wine, taking a sip to hide her vulnerability. "I can look out for myself, Tony. I'm on a good team and I'm an excellent magicoforensicologist."

"I know." Tony sets his wine aside, leaning forward to touch her arm. The merest touch of his fingers makes her shiver, and she feels her nipples harden. Fuck, but what he's always been able to do to her. With a word, or a touch, or a fucking sodding smile. She hates him. She doesn't. She wants to.

"Tony," Pansy says in what she hopes is a warning tone. She can't look at his face.

He's breathing more heavily now, but only resting his fingertips on her arm. He strokes circles into the tender skin. She's sure she's blushing like a schoolgirl, and gooseflesh is starting to form. 

Pansy meets his eyes. "What do you know?" She tries to keep her focus on questioning him. "About Godunov?"

His look is simultaneously heated and level, somber even. "So much more than I can tell you. Things are complicated. More complex than you can imagine, Pans. But I know you need to be very, very careful right now. If only for Terry and Camilla. I know I have no right to ask it of you."

"Tony," she interlaces her fingers with his, holding his hand still. Her pulse is beating furiously. "Tell me what you know."

He bites his lips for a moment, then he looks away from her. "I know enough about what's coming--I'll tell you if it's anything later. But stay away from Godunov and don't get anywhere his circle. It's bad enough that your sister is involved, but he doesn't consider her a threat." Tony pauses. "You, however. You are. And you humiliated him publicly. You and your friends. Men like Godunov don't forget that easily. Or forgive."

"As if my father wouldn't have his bollocks first," Pansy says, trying to keep her voice light. It's hard. Tony's unsettling her. In so many ways. 

"In his world, Dimitri Godunov trumps Terry Parkinson," Tony says. "If Godunov wanted to move against you, there's not a goddamned thing your father could do to protect you. Please, be careful. All of you. I don't want your friends hurt either."

Pansy rubs her thumb over his, ignoring the beating of her heart in her throat. She's fairly certain all of them could go up against Godunov. Whatever Tony might think. They're trained Aurors after all. It's their bloody job. "Why are you telling me this?" Her voice is rough and sounds dissonant to her ears. She looks up at him again, stunned by the softness of his gaze.

"Because I would wreck worlds for you, Pansy Parkinson," Tony says, and leans forward, mouth hovering near hers. "And if anything happened to you, I would not leave one brick standing on another at the Ministry."

Pansy closes the gap, leaning in to his lips, brushing them with hers. He makes a soft sound, chasing her mouth a little when she sits back. His face is open with desire. Desire for her, she realises, and she can feel how wet she is in her shorts. Her body is begging to be touched again. It's been weeks, and even with that, no one has ever been able to shatter her the way Tony has.

"I think I'll be okay." Pansy smiles at him. She touches his face, feels the soft scratch of his stubble against her fingertips. "But there's one thing you could help me with."

When she asks him to, Tony carries her to her bedroom, spreads her out across her bed. Pansy feels like a goddess beneath his touch, his fingers slipping between her slick folds, over her swollen clit, his teeth nipping at the hardened nub of her nipple. Her hair tumbles loose around her shoulders, and Tony kisses her until she's breathless. Aching for him. Begging him to take her. 

Please.

Tony presses into her, thick and hard, his breath ragged and warm against her throat, her legs spread wide as she arches up against each off his thrusts, her plum-polished fingernails dragging down the smooth plane of his back. Pansy feels as if she's splintering apart, Tony's name echoing in the silence of her flat.

He's always been her downfall. 

Pansy thinks he always will be.

***

Jake is waiting side-by-side with Harry at ten minutes to eight on fucking Saturday morning in the special reception area of the Minister of Magic's office. Neither of them are talking at the moment. They'd greeted each other with mumbled hellos and awkward nods in Shacklebolt's office, where they'd been directed to meet, the presumptuous owls from Shacklebolt's aide, Michael Cressy, arriving just before eleven the night before. Jesus, but Jake sometimes hates the way he's summoned by the British Ministry. It's always polite, of course, but there's no consideration of his plans. Just an order to be at a certain place at a certain time with the damned assumption that he'll be there.

He glances over at Harry, who appears to be studying the logo woven into the deep purple-red carpet of the large room they've just been shown into by Cressy. Jake's wearing his dress uniform, as is Harry, which is a bit excessive since they're going to be greeting people they know well, but ceremony is ceremony, after all. And the Brits do stand on it, in Jake's experience. 

Jake rubs at his face, stifling back the yawn that's threatening to slip out. Christ, he's tired. Harry must be wiped out, Jake thinks. As SIO of the team that arrested the four Death Eater colluders, Harry's been on call since Thursday evening at the least. Jake wonders what's going to happen next. He knows what MACUSA would do, but he's learned that doesn't always translate over here. They've their own way of doing things, which might be odd in Jake's view, but it works for them. 

Still, Harry seems nervous, and Jake doesn't want to startle him by talking. He also doesn't know what to say exactly. "Sorry your suspects were murdered" seems a bit rude, but Jake knows that Harry's team must've taken a hit, what with the relationships involved. Whitaker had been on the team led by Inspector Wrightson, and she'd brought him in like a bloody boss, Jake thinks, and Malfoy's father is the only suspect from the investigation left alive. Jake knows Hermione'd spent all of Thursday night in the Department of Mysteries watching over Malfoy senior, but she's being cagey about everything else. It's need-to-know only, she's said, with the distinct implication being that Jake isn't on that list. He's fine with it, really, but Jake wishes he could talk to Blaise and get the actual skinny on what they know so far and what the team's involvement is. Harry won't really speak to him, and Hermione only called him in yesterday to give him a case outline of what was happening with the Luxembourg delegation and what they hoped to achieve.

And isn't that going to be impossible, Jake thinks. He's been on delegations like that, and he's fairly certain the British Ministry must be shitting itself right about now. It takes a lot for the ICW to get involved in the workings of other governments, but a prison scandal like the one going on in Azkaban right now would have them all scurrying about. Dark wizards and Dementors and prison breaks? Yeah. Not fucking likely the ICW would turn a blind eye to that. He wonders if they've heard about the murders yet. That's going to make them furious as well. The whole damn thing looks bad for the British Auror force, he thinks. And for most of their Magical Law Enforcement, if he's honest, given the scope of the brewing scandal.

Jake's eyes scan the room out of habit. It's beautiful: a large, stately black stone Floo with elegant carved figures of witches and wizards, the thick, plush carpet with the logo centered in front, and, around the dark wood-panelled walls, heavy bronze-hued drapes. The space smells fresh but disused, and Jake supposed that's because it's a formal reception area and not the Minister's private Floo. Evidently, it wouldn't do for delegations to use the general International Portkey lounge near St. Pancras, or even the smaller InterEuropean Portkey arrivals area near Russell Square. Jake does wonder if the delegation will arrive by special Portkey or whether they're going to use that Floo that seems too beautiful to be functional. MACUSA has most official visitors--including the highest level guests--arrive in the authorised Portkey terminal near Chambers Street and walk the block and a half up to the Woolworth Building. The general public have to arrive in New Jersey, though, and arrange transport into Manhattan.The lines are so long for Floo transit and the official Apparition point that Muggleborns and half-bloods often give up and take the PATH trains or a taxi in. It's just fucking easier at that point. He glances at the Floo again, wondering what it'd be like to be able to Floo directly into MACUSA. Christ, the security alone would be a nightmare. Particularly in the past five years.

Lost in his thoughts, Jake nearly jumps when the green fire flares and a Nuntius charm announces "Charlotte Marquandt. Deputy Head of European Magical Affairs." 

Harry smoothes a hasty hand down his buttons, and Jake suppresses the urge to roll his eyes. He always did suspect Harry had the hots for Lotte. But he supposes that's Malfoy's problem now. Definitely not his.

A stunning red-haired witch in green robes emerges from the Floo, brushing a bit of soot off of her sleeve. Beneath her open robes, she wears a severe but chic charcoal grey suit with a soft ivory silk blouse, the first few buttons undone. Her low heels are practical, but nicely cobbled. At six-one in her stockinged feet, Lotte would tower over them both in heels. Jake remembers her in European Auror uniforms and muddy field garb, and he's impressed with how well she cleans up.

"Lotte!" Harry says, stepping forward. Jake thinks callously about tripping him, but Harry'd probably land right in Lotte's tits, and he'd like that, wouldn't he? Bastard. Jake keeps his hands behind his back and his feet firmly on the ground.

A quick smile cracks Lotte's otherwise severe features. "Harry!" She turns, "Oh, and Jake too! This is unexpected!"

You can't even imagine, Jake thinks. But he smiles, and the warmth on Lotte's face makes him relax a little. They're among friends here, and there's no need to be petty, particularly given the complicated political nature of the occasion.

Lotte clasps each of their hands, then moves aside as her team starts popping out of the Floo with rather impressive haste, each announced by name and rank. Jake recognises Chief Inspector Ujarak Toft from Denmark, and the Romanian Inspector, Ottilia Dobre among the small group. Lotte's team all stand to one side after Jake and Harry welcome them.

"Legal should be right behind us. They're coming in from Brussels," Toft says. "Although they might be polishing their briefcases."

Next to him, Dobre laughs and then leans over to Jake. "I thought you were moving to New York?" Her eyes flick over to Harry, who looks away.

Coward, Jake thinks uncharitably.

Lotte nods. "Last I heard, Graves was making noise about chaining you up in the States, Jake. If I'd known you were a free agent, I might have tried to woo you both back to us. You've still got your consulting status, haven't you?"

Jake sighs. It's just going to get uglier if he doesn't say anything, and Harry's clearly going to be no use at all. "I'm over here working with Hermione Granger and the Unspeakables for a few weeks. My contract was extended because of recent events. I'm back with New York when the dust settles here, but I'm still official as a consultant for Luxembourg through the end of the year. We'll see after then if Graves extends those permissions."

Dobre nods, a canny expression on her face. "And Potter's moving back with you?"

Jake looks over. Harry's face is a little red, but he's talking to a Dutch Auror Jake almost recognises. Cornelia something or other. He missed her last name when it was announced. Fuck it, he thinks. "No. Potter dumped me a few weeks ago," Jake says bluntly. He doesn't mention Malfoy. No sense making that poor bastard's life any more difficult than it already is. "So we're on liaised teams for this affair only, and then I'll be headed home to Brooklyn."

Lotte's eyebrows shoot up. Toft becomes very interested in the state of the legal delegation's arrival, and checks the wall clock against his watch. Dobre alone is unmoved. "Well, that's terribly awkward," she says sweetly. Jake kind of loves her for it.

Harry coughs, drawing attention. His face is still a bit red, matching his formal uniform piping, and Jake isn't sorry at all. "Jake's been very kind to help us with criminal investigation and also with a situation I'm sure he'll want to talk to your legal department about involving the Azkaban Dementors. He's been here for most of the main events of the past weeks, and Kingsley has full confidence in his work here."

Despite himself, Jake is a little bit pleased by Harry's commendation. Harry may be a shit ex-lover, but he's a decent coworker if he can get his head out of his ass. And the less said about Harry's ass, the better, Jake thinks. He really hates that his body still responds to thoughts of Harry naked beneath him.

"We'll wait until Nadia's team arrives, but I imagine there will be a lot to get up to speed on." Lotte's unruffled demeanour impresses Jake. She's seen her fair share of drama at European headquarters, he's sure, and she just keeps going through it. "We've got specialists who want briefing on specific topics, which I'm sure you'll have people to deliver. And Nadia and I are going to lead the teams jointly, with some overlap in our duties."

Harry nods. Jake knows Hermione's team had been up half the night preparing the packets that are laid out in the auditorium-style conference room they're supposed to bring everyone to that will serve as the main room for the team, along with individual offices for senior staff and breakout rooms.

"The ICW's having a bit of a conniption," Dobre says. She leans closer, drops her voice. "This whole recent situation with your Hit Wizards, yes? Is it true what we've heard? That your department chief is on the run after murdering four suspects in holding?"

And there it is, Jake thinks. He looks over at Harry who runs a hand through his hair, huffing out in frustration. "Something along those lines," Harry says. "It's a bit more complicated than that."

Like hell it is. Jake gives Harry a look that Lotte catches. "You disagree?" she asks.

Jake shrugs. "It's not my government." Hermione'd pointed that out to him earlier in the week. 

Harry stiffens beside him. "Our Auror force is working as best as we can to fix this situation--"

"Not quickly enough, I'm afraid," Toft says. His brown face is sober. "The ICW's sending over another team to Azkaban today. They're going to take the whole place apart if they need to." He shakes his head. "Your whole Ministry's going to be on notice, I'm afraid. Akingbade's on a tear and wants to make an example of you lot."

"Fuck," Harry says, and Jake feels for him. The Supreme Mugwump's been furious with Britain for over a decade now, since he replaced Albus Dumbledore during Britain's Second Wizarding War. Jake can only imagine how thrilled Babajide Akingbade must be to have this particular fuckup dropped in his lap, a perfect little present all wrapped up. 

Lotte glances over at Jake. "I hear the Americans are here too," she says. "Meeting with the Minister. It's all hush-hush though, at least on our end. What's that about?"

Jake blinks. "Haven't heard anything. Do you know who it is?" Not that Graves would have told him if anyone was coming over. The fucker likes to play his own little games.

"Timothy McGillicudy," Lotte says. "And Paloma Grimsditch."

They're both Unspeakables, but ones that Jake's never had much contact with. They work over in Surveillance, he thinks. He shakes his head. "No idea what they'd be here for."

Lotte shrugs. "Perhaps nothing of import then."

The Floo clangs again, and the Nuntius charm rings out with a burst of green flame. "Nadia Daifallah, Senior Advisor to the International Wizarding Court of Justice, Brussels." A tall, brown woman steps out, her dark, braided hair caught back in a bun at the nape of her neck. Her eyes light up when she sees Jake. 

"Jake, darling." Nadia leans in to kiss his cheek as the Floo announces her team, Aurelie Fontaine and Tomás Furtado da Luz. Fontaine must be new; Jake's never met her before. "Lovely to see you, and what a wonderful surprise." 

"I've something to discuss with you," Jake murmurs into her ear. "About the Dementors?" He'll be damned if he's not going to use this chance to push her about what's going to happen to those poor souls. He'd promised Dee he'd do something, and he intends to. He doesn't care whose arm he has to twist to do so.

Nadia nods as she steps back. Her dark eyes are sharp, and he suspects she already knows what he's going to say. "Perhaps over drinks tonight once this meeting's over."

The door behind them opens, and Michael steps out again. "Oh, good," he says. "You're all here." He catches the door before it shuts, holding it open for them. "If you wouldn't mind following me, the Minister will be with you in just a moment."

Jake looks over at Harry as they wait for the delegation to file in. "You all right?" he asks. 

"I'm fine," Harry says, a bit stiffly, and Jake knows he's not. He can tell by the way Harry's holding himself, shoulders tight, hands clenched, his whole body tense and taut. Jesus, he wishes Harry would take a calming potion sometimes. It's hard to be around him when he's this anxious. 

"You're not," Jake catches himself saying, and he wishes he hadn't the moment Harry turns a vicious gaze on him. 

"Well, it's none of your concern, is it?" Harry says under his breath. "I dumped you after all." His mouth twists. "Poor Jake." 

Jake wants to hit him. He breathes out instead and turns away. Harry can be a fucking shit when he wants to be. "It's only the truth," he says, and he walks into the room a few steps behind Nadia, leaving Harry in his wake. He doesn't want to be here, doesn't want to have to be dealing with his fucking ex, much less working with him. His fucking ex who dumped him for his goddamn junior officer. 

Jesus, Jake can't wait to get back to Brooklyn.

He's about done with all of this shit.

***

It's half six before Harry finally comes back to his own house and toes off his boots whilst collapsed on the sofa. He bloody well hates meetings, finds them exhausting, especially all day ones when he's supposed to be friendly and on point. Harry's too introverted to be entirely comfortable with a room full of people around him. Still, it'd been good to see everyone from Luxembourg again, even if the circumstances for the visit are beyond awful, and the tension between him and Jake is frustrating. He huffs a sigh. He wishes they didn't have to work together right now. It's awkward at best and humiliating at worst, and Harry knows he's been a shit to Jake, tossing him over for Malfoy, and Jake's been decent about it mostly. But there are still moments, like today, when that anger between them pops up, and whatever small amount of ease that's developed between them disappears. Harry'd spent half the day trying not to look Jake's way. He'd managed it most of the time, only feeling slightly guilty when his gaze dragged over to Jake across the room. It hasn't been that long since they broke up, he reminds himself. Less than two months. It's only natural that he feels that sting still. But Malfoy might not agree, he thinks, and Harry runs his hands over his face with a groan. How he's managed to complicate his relationships like this he has no bloody clue, and if he's honest, it keeps him up some nights.

Harry's a little less worried, though, about the collaboration with Luxembourg than he was this morning. Not that it won't be the equivalent of the ICW stomping over British toes with steel boots, though. Harry knows how these visits work. Akingbade'll be wanting to flex some muscle, which means the Ministry'll be slapped with sanctions until Kingsley and the Wizengamot get the house back in order, at least to the ICW's standards. To be honest, Harry's a bit grateful they've got help--this whole bloody mess is too much to unravel with the current Auror forces. New eyes on everything might help them solve a few problems. He doesn't know what else they can do.

Kreacher's thunking around somewhere upstairs as Harry sits on the edge of the sofa, trying to gather himself. He's got his braces down, and his shirt off, wadded between his hip and the sofa arm beside him. He's tired, and part of him just wants a stiff firewhisky and bit of a kip on his bed. But he also doesn't want to be alone. Not entirely. He wants someone to curl up with whilst he sleeps, to wrap his body around, to wake up beside, comfortable and warm. 

Christ, but he wants Malfoy.

Harry places the mobile call before he can think too much about it.

Malfoy's voice comes on, with a lot of background noise rumbling behind him. "Potter? Is that you?"

"Yeah, it's me." Harry's heart leaps when he hears Malfoy's voice. It's ridiculous, he knows, but he already feels better. Harry sinks back against the arm of the sofa, the tension starting to ease from his shoulders. It feels good to lean back, focus on something else than staying upright and keeping ducks in a row.

"Is everything okay? Do you need me to come in? Hold on." Malfoy pauses for a second, speaking to someone nearby. "Sorry. Okay, I'm back."

"Where the hell are you?" Harry puts his feet up on the sofa, wiggling his toes against the cushion. The simple pleasure of it astounds him.

"I'm in Sainsbury's, marketing for dinner." Malfoy's voice is a bit patchy--he must be near the back of the store, Harry thinks. "Mother wants salmon."

"Really?" Harry's smiling like a fool. The image of Malfoy marketing is a bit too amusing for him. He thinks his school-age self would have been shocked. "A Malfoy in a Muggle market? Preposterous." Harry likes winding Malfoy up a little, although he knows to be careful. It's been a rough few days across the board.

Malfoy snorts across the crackling mobile connection. "Not all of us have a Kreacher, Potter. Some of us actually have to do things ourselves."

"Right. I'd no idea how overworked you were." Harry laughs, too fond to be bothered by the bite in Malfoy's tone. "Poor thing."

"So, is this just a social call, or did you have something you actually wanted to say?" Malfoy sounds impatient. "It's just I need to pay--"

"I wanted to call to ask if you'd come to Grimmauld tonight." Harry's putting it out there. He knows Malfoy can refuse, but it's what he most wants. "Only, I'd really like to see you."

Malfoy's side of the line is silent for a moment. Harry waits, his breath held.

"Well, I can't just fucking drop everything and come over now." Malfoy's petulant, but hope swells in Harry's heart. That wasn't a no. Not yet. "I'm not your bloody plaything, you know."

Harry waits.

"Oh, for fuck's sake." Malfoy exhales, sending static across the microphone and Harry holds the phone away from his ear for a moment. "Fine. I'll come when I can, but it's not going to be for a bit. I have to get these things home and make dinner. Mother's sodding useless when it comes to feeding herself. You'd think I'm the bloody house elf these days."

"Great," Harry hopes he doesn't sound too eager. He fidgets against the leather of the sofa. He's terribly eager; he's missed having Malfoy to himself. Harry's bloody greedy when it comes to that. "I'll be here when you can make it."

"Whatever, Potter." Malfoy hesitates, then says, "Look, I have to go before this bloody old cow behind me bangs me with her trolley. Again."

When Malfoy rings off, Harry smiles, pressing his mobile to his chest. That went better than he hoped. His stomach growls, and he realises he needs to feed himself. He's still wound up from hosting the delegation and trying not to make the situation with Azkaban and the holding cell murders look like a giant cockup, even if it _is_ an enormous cockup and everyone bloody well knows it. He can't even fault the _Prophet_ for pointing that out.

Food first, Harry thinks. He doesn't want a grumbling stomach when Malfoy arrives. Harry shuffles downstairs to the kitchen and makes himself a plate of buttery, fluffy eggs and toast before Kreacher can hear him. He's in the mood for comfort food tonight, and he's not sorry to be eating simply. It's like something he would have made for himself in the kitchen of Privet Drive, and the very familiarity of it gives him a sense of safety. Ironically enough, Harry thinks. He'd never felt all that safe in his aunt and uncle's house. He should ring Dudley, though. It's been a few months since he's met his cousin for a pint in Little Whinging. Dudders and his girlfriend Mel--bright, clever, and much nicer than Aunt Petunia had ever been--have a wedding coming up at the end of the year, if Harry remembers correctly. He has a save-the-date card around here somewhere. Harry can't imagine his cousin married. He can't imagine himself married for that matter. He feels too damned young to do something so long-term and settled. 

Then again, today's the first of July, and Harry'll be twenty-six at the end of the month. Jesus. That seems strange in and of itself, being that much closer to thirty. Harry still feels as if he's that awkward eleven-year-old stepping into Hogwarts for the first time, even though that's almost fifteen years ago now.

Harry drinks a glass of water and a cup of tea, then makes his way upstairs, passing Kreacher on the steps. "Malfoy's coming by," he warns his elf. "If I'm not downstairs, send him up?"

Kreacher's entire face brightens. "Kreacher will be being honoured to be sending Master Malfoy upstairs, Harry Potter. Is Master Harry needing a bottle of wine in the bedroom?"

Christ, but Harry does not need his house elf helping his sex life. "No," he says, then a step or two up, he turns back around. "On second thought, yes." Harry wants a glass himself. "But the good stuff. Maybe a bottle Hermione's left?" She has better taste in wine than he does.

Kreacher claps his hands. "Kreacher is knowing the best one." He disappears with a pop, and Harry shakes his head, making his way back up the stairs.

Harry straightens his bedroom so it doesn't look terribly wrecked and says a few freshening charms to get the stuffiness out of the room. He doesn't think he needs to clean the sheets yet--and they smell of Malfoy anyhow, so that's not a worry. Kreacher brings up the bottle of wine--a Beaujolais Gamay Noir from 2000--as well as two Burgundy glasses. He sets them on the dresser, then scurries away.

Still at loose ends, Harry decides to take a bath in the old claw-footed tub in his ensuite. He casts extra charms on the boiler to make the water come out steaming and shucks his clothes into the hamper Kreacher's finally forced him to use--there are only so many shirts Harry can take Vanishing into the thin air. Whilst rooting around for his favorite bath mixture--hinoki and cypress he'd bought from a shop in Manhattan, and he's certain there's still some left--he finds a small tin of Gillyweed in the bottom drawer of his wardrobe. Bill grows Gillyweed in the garden of Shell Cottage for his nerve pain, and he has a permit from the Ministry for cultivating restricted herbals. Whilst it isn't strictly legal for him to share with Harry, it still falls under personal use somewhat, especially in the small doses Harry keeps on hand. 

Harry pours a glass of the Gamay, then takes the tin, some rolling papers, his wand, and the brown bag of the bath mixture into the en suite. Tossing the salt and fragrant herbs into the steaming hot water, Harry breathes deeply for a moment. It's already loosening the knot in the center of his chest. Before he gets into the bath, he perches on the loo and rolls a smallish Gillyweed spliff, just enough to loosen his mind, relax him a bit. Those particular calming properties are only noticeable when the herb's smoked, people say, but Harry begs to differ. When he'd swallowed a whole Gillyweed during the Triwizard Tournament, it'd settled him, soothed Harry's jangling nerves enough to get him through the lake to rescue Ron before the gills and webbing had worn off. 

At least Harry doesn't have to worry about gills when he smokes the dried Gillyweed. He doesn't indulge much, and he never ingests enough for that to happen, although he's heard rumours about it happening to a friend of a friend's friend. That sort of thing. He's thought about trying Gillywater; Luna's a fan of it and brews her own, and she sends a bottle up every now and then to McGonagall, she says. Harry remembers McGonagall ordering it at the Three Broomsticks back when he was in school and Ron being slightly shocked.

Harry turns off the bath water and sets a saucer next to the tub along with his glass of wine. He lays his wand awkwardly across the soap dish, then lowers himself bit by bit into the steaming tub. It takes him a few moments to get used to the heat and allow his body to adjust. His legs shake a bit, and his half-hard prick wilts from the intense warmth of the water. Finally, when he's submerged up to his chest, he takes the Gillyweed and lights it with his wand, tilting his chin back to keep the water from the lit end of the paper cylinder.

Drawing his breath in deeply, Harry lets the smoke hover in his throat and lungs. It burns, but the relief floods him immediately. He blows out the smoke, watching it curl across the surface of his bath water. He could feel all right, just doing this, being here. But knowing that Malfoy will be here sometime tonight makes excitement bubble in his veins. Malfoy's a more potent drug than Gillyweed, Harry thinks, and he honestly can't get enough of being near him. It's not just sex, although the sex is bloody amazing. Better than any Harry's ever had--and he's had a lot over the years, if he's honest. Being Harry bloody Potter does have a few perks. A very, very few. But with Malfoy, it's everything--talking to him, not talking, just lying still, waking up with him. Harry's got used to being alone--he's been alone his whole life, and even when he's around other people, he's lonely usually. But Malfoy makes him feel different, keeps him from feeling so isolated. With Malfoy, it's just companionable. Comfortable. Easy, in its own way.

Even when Malfoy had told him about Robards, Harry hadn't given a damn. There's nothing Gawain can do to make Harry stay away from Malfoy, and if Gawain wants to go after Malfoy for that, then fuck it. He'll have to take Harry on, and Harry'll do anything he has to in order to protect Malfoy. Even if it's standing up against the Head Auror himself. Harry's sorry this had to start with him and Malfoy working together, but really, that was just a coincidence, or perhaps bad luck. Harry's drawn to Malfoy like a paired magnet, like the other half of a charmed set of furniture. He and Malfoy are twinned entities, they always have been ever since they first met, and Harry thinks no one else understands him like Malfoy does. He wonders if he understands Malfoy the same way--he often worries it's unequal, that he doesn't read Malfoy as well as Malfoy reads him. But Harry tries to be there, tries to make up for his shortcomings, tries to be someone Malfoy can depend on. It's all he knows how to do.

Harry takes a breath, then another careful lungful of smoke before reaching for his wine glass and taking a sip. Kreacher's right; it's a bloody good bottle. It tastes of berries and flowers with a sharp, bitter bite. He shifts, his knee breaking the surface of the water with a soft splash, and he sets the glass back down beside the tub. His body's starting to let go of the anxiety that's built up in his muscles since Thursday night. Christ, but Harry doesn't want to go through another week like this. He takes another drag off the spliff and exhales the smoke into the steamy air around him. He hadn't really realised how much tension he was holding on to. He leans back more, slipping beneath the bath water again, closing his eyes. The languor that's spread through his limbs is delicious. If Malfoy waits much longer, he might find Harry asleep and shrivelled in the bath, although Harry reminds himself he has a mostly lit Gillyweed spliff in his hand, so that might be a stupid idea.

When Harry opens his eyes to set the spliff down, his heart catches. Malfoy is watching him, pale grey linen shirt rolled up at the cuffs and open a few buttons showing sparse golden chest hair and pale skin. Malfoy's trousers are a darker grey and slim-fitted, the way he prefers. With his lean build, he can carry the effect off beautifully. He has a glass of wine in his hand, and as Harry watches him, he lifts it to his mouth and takes a sip.

"Hey, you're here," Harry says, smiling and forgetting to be self-conscious. "How long have you been standing there?"

"I finished faster than I expected." Malfoy frowns, creating a wrinkle between his brows that Harry wants to kiss away. "And long enough. Are you seriously smoking Gillyweed in the bath, Potter?" He brushes a soft lock of blond hair out of his face. His cheeks are pink in the moist heat of the bathroom, and his eyes are bright. "Doesn't that violate the Auror Code of Conduct or something?"

"Probably," Harry leans forward. "But so do we. Do you want some?"

Malfoy perches elegantly on the side of the tub, leaning to take the spliff from Harry's hand. He relights it with his wand, then draws a lungful of smoke, holding his breath for a moment. 

A curl of desire wiggles through Harry's chest. He doesn't want to find Malfoy dead sexy, and he really invited him because he wanted to spend time with him, but Malfoy's lips are closed delicately around the paper tip of the spliff, and the look on his face is stern but also beautiful, and Harry wants to drag him into the bath and have his way with him. Except Malfoy would probably scold him for ruining his clothing and leave in a huff. And Harry really doesn't want him to disappear. Not right now. Not tonight.

Harry can feel his prick starting to perk up. He smiles at Malfoy. "How's that?"

On a whim, Harry sits up slightly, motioning for Malfoy to bend down. When their lips are together, Malfoy breathes out and Harry inhales the smoke from his lungs. He tastes the bitter and brackish from the Gillyweed, the sweet and salty and hint of wine from Malfoy. It's delirious. He passes a little bit of smoke back to Malfoy. It's not much, but at least he gets to kiss him.

The second time, Malfoy drags hard and blows a lot of smoke into Harry's mouth. Harry breathes in, trying not to cough. He's hit with desire, and the need to be close to Malfoy. He may also be getting just a little high. He passes back a mouthful of smoke to Malfoy and chases it with another kiss, slow and sweet and gentle.

Malfoy's wide-eyed and poised above him on the edge of the tub. "Potter," he murmurs against Harry's mouth. "You're a wretch." He leans over to pinch off the end of the spliff, then sets it on to the porcelain sink. 

When he sits back, Harry reaches up a hand to Malfoy's arm. "If you had fewer clothes, you could come in."

Malfoy looks at him then, his eyes a bit unfocussed. "Yeah. Or you could just get out of the bloody tub."

Harry shrugs, smiling up at Malfoy, who looks like a vision in the steam of the bath and the soft light, hair starting to curl at the ends in the damp air. "Either way. What would you like?"

Malfoy gives him a slow, small smile, standing up suddenly. He begins to unbutton his shirt. "Well, I suppose I might come in. For a bit."

Harry leans back, drinking in the sight of Malfoy, long and lean and blond, as he strips down to his pants, then gently shuffles out of them too. He's standing naked and gorgeous on Harry's bathmat, and Harry's pretty certain he'll go mad if Malfoy doesn't come closer. Malfoy takes a moment to fold his clothes, setting them on the lid of the loo.

Malfoy stops at the far end of the tub, lets a bit of water out of the drain, then stops it again. His bum looks amazing whilst he's bending over the faucet, and Harry wants to lick him open again, bring him to screaming the way he had on Thursday night. He's had Malfoy in so many ways, so many positions, so many dispositions, but it's nowhere near enough. Harry's hungry for him with an intensity he didn't dream possible.

Malfoy stands over him then, his prick at Harry's eye level, still soft. Harry wants to take it into his mouth. "I could blow you, if you like," Harry says more to Malfoy's prick than to Malfoy. It responds to his suggestion with a twitch. 

"Hold on." Malfoy reaches down, putting a hand on the tub, and steps into it, over Harry. He comes down to his knees, resting them against Harry's hips, then hovers over Harry's steadily hardening prick.

His blond hair tickles Harry's face as he bends over Harry, his gorgeous mouth curved in a smile. "This is nice too."

They slide their arms around each other, Harry leaning up against the delicious pressure of Malfoy rubbing against his lap. He captures Malfoy's mouth in a hungry kiss, and Malfoy lets Harry devour his lips, biting back with sharp kisses, their tongues following each other, first Harry's in Malfoy's mouth, then Malfoy's in Harry's. They rock against each other, their slick hands grasping for purchase, and Malfoy levers himself up against Harry using the edges of the tub, then sinks back down, his prick sliding against Harry's, Harry chasing Malfoy's mouth all the while. Water sloshes over the side of the tub, and Harry hopes Malfoy's shoes aren't too wet.

"Fuck, but I've missed you," Harry says against the wet skin over Malfoy's collarbone.

Malfoy laughs, rubbing against Harry's now very full erection. "Admit it. You just summoned me for a booty call."

This makes Harry stop. He doesn't know why, but he needs to tell Malfoy the truth. "No." His touch is soft on Malfoy's cheek, and he searches Malfoy's eyes for a moment. "I mean, I'm rather a fan of booty calls. Particularly with you. Don't misunderstand me. But I really just wanted to see you tonight."

Malfoy blinks at him, his face indescribable. "Don't say things like that Potter. I'll think you mean them."

Harry captures his mouth roughly for a moment, sloshing more water out of the tub. It splashes over the bath mat, across the tiled floor. "Oh, but I do."

Malfoy inhales, his body shivering slightly against Harry's chest. "Well, perhaps I came for a booty call." He presses his nose against Harry's neck and Harry tips his head back, letting Malfoy bite him, sucking a small bruise. Harry likes being marked almost as much as Malfoy likes to mark him.

"Did you now?" Harry meets Malfoy's eyes, and Malfoy looks away, his cheeks pink. Harry knows that Malfoy sometimes gets coy when he negotiates what he wants sexually, and it is teasing and thrilling simultaneously. "What did you have in mind?"

Malfoy huffs out a breath when Harry places a careful hand on his back. "I don't know," he says, his voice raspy with irritation. "I just feel raw, itchy in my skin." He hesitates, then says quietly, "And I want to be touched."

Harry nods, stroking gentle circles into the skin of Malfoy's shoulder blades. His own cock is ridiculously hard, bobbing slightly in the water against Malfoy's. "And how can I help?"

There's a moment's silence then Malfoy says, "I need you to fuck me, Potter. Hard." Malfoy stares Harry full in the face, almost defiantly. "Gillyweed and wine take the edge off, but I'm really hoping having my brains shagged out will help me relax properly. I bloody bought smoked salmon for my mother so I wouldn't have to take forever cooking tonight, so that should tell you how badly I need to be fucked."

Harry's head buzzes with desire, his prick straining. He inhales a slow breath, "Okay. I can do that. But you're sure you don't just want a good lie-down?" Harry's eager as fuck to shag Malfoy, but he worries that Malfoy might be more tired than he knows.

In answer, Malfoy thrusts his hips forward, rubs his deliciously hard, pink-tipped cock against Harry's. Harry bites off a groan. "Does this feel like a good lie-down to you?" The look in Malfoy's grey eyes is challenging, fierce. How Malfoy can switch from blushing and coy to brazen and demanding in an instant, Harry doesn't know, but it bloody well winds him up like nothing else.

In the best way possible, Harry thinks.

"No." Harry plays dumb, making Malfoy narrow his eyes. "It feels like your knob." He gives him a slow smile, just to watch Malfoy squirm in frustration. Harry doesn't know why annoying Malfoy is so gratifying, but it is.

"Well, if that's how you want to be about it," Malfoy leans back, an exasperated expression on his face. Harry's hand is still on Malfoy, pressing against the indent at the small of his back. "I suppose I can take my custom elsewhere."

"Oh, no need for that," Harry leans forward, cupping Malfoy's arse and swirling his tongue over Malfoy's pink-brown nipple, feeling him shudder. Harry murmurs against Malfoy's skin, "I'm sure we can come to a mutually satisfying arrangement."

The water swirls as Malfoy stands up, his swollen prick bobbing in front of Harry's face. It's a glorious view, his skin pinked from the bath, his face twisted in a scowl. "More doing, less talking, Potter." He steps out of the bath, dripping onto the mat, and grabs a towel from the back of the door in one hand, wine glass in the other.

Harry follows him, mentally thanking heaven for his good fortune as the water sloshes around him, dripping from his body. His limbs are loose are he wraps a towel around his hips, taking a moment to grab his wand and say a drying spell on his hair, then tucking it into his towel. He picks up his own glass and the bottle, walking into the bedroom to see Malfoy sprawled on Harry's bed, his arse up, looking for all the world like a debauched young god from a neoclassical painting. Harry could stare all night at the long, smooth arch of pale skin against his blue coverlet, but he suspects Malfoy would grow impatient, more impatient that is, dangerously impatient in fact.

Harry sets the bottle and glass down next to Malfoy's on the table next to the bed. He pulls his wand from the knotted waist of his towel, setting it alongside the wine bottle, then drops the towel itself. It hits the floor with a soft, damp thump, and Harry sees a shiver go through Malfoy, making his whole body tremble. Malfoy flexes a pale foot against the mattress.

The curve of Malfoy's arse is stunning, the arch of his neck, the subtle ridged progress of his spine. Harry palms his prick, shivering a little as he watches Malfoy and thinks about what he wants to do next. He reaches into the drawer, noticing that they've almost used up this phial of lube. Merlin. And it was fairly newly opened.

"Are you going to take all night?" Malfoy asks, his head turned away. There's a breathless hitch in his voice that belies his demanding words.

"Not without you," Harry counters. "I'm just getting lube."

Harry tosses the phial to the side, then crawls over Malfoy's body, dragging his lips across his shoulders, then sits back on his heels. Malfoy's legs are splayed slightly; his head's pillowed on one arm, blond hair in his face. Harry settles a hand on Malfoy's right arse cheek, palming its surprising fullness. Malfoy's so long and lean and bony everywhere else, that Harry's always surprised by how round and perfect the globes of his arsecheeks are. Harry nudges Malfoy's thigh wider with one knee, looks at the root of Malfoy's prick, the swell of his balls, the tight rosy furl of his arsehole. Harry's prick surges with impatience. He wants to buried inside Malfoy, to feel him hot and tight around his own cock until Harry's breathless with need. He exhales slowly, licking his lip. 

"So how would you like me?" Harry asks, keeping his voice light. He could come just from looking at Malfoy like this, from the trust Malfoy's showing at being on his belly in front of Harry, letting his arse be on display like this. It's all Harry can do not to surge forward, to press his mouth against that sweet little hole, but he's trying to suss out how Malfoy's doing at the same time. Perhaps Harry shouldn't worry, but he does. He doesn't like to assume he knows what Malfoy is thinking--Malfoy's contrary enough when Harry does understand him.

"Like this is good," Malfoy wraps an arm under his knee and pulls it up, exposing his arsehole even further. Harry's almost afraid he's going to pop right then and there, spattering his spunk across Malfoy's perfect, gorgeous cheeks.

"So you want to lie there and have me deflower you like a shepherdess in a field?" Harry asks, his brain stuck somehow in ridiculous neoclassical imagery.

Malfoy laughs, low and throaty. "Something like that. But do it now, Potter." His hips shift a little, arse spread wide for Harry's savouring. "I need to come."

Harry breathes in, grabbing the lube and slicking his palm. "Working on it, Malfoy. Merlin, you're not half demanding." Harry's smiling when he says it, until the pressure of his hand on his own prick makes him gasp.

Malfoy hikes his knee up a bit more. "Waiting, Potter. Just waiting here." His voice is muffled by the pillow.

Harry curls his hand around the swollen head of his cock, rubbing the foreskin up and over it. He loves watching his prick in his hand, knowing that it'll be deep inside Malfoy in a moment. Christ. He transfers the slick to Malfoy's arse, adding more from the phial.

"Not too much," Malfoy cautions, looking back over his shoulder at Harry. His hair's rumpled and loose, strands of it falling over his cheek. He looks almost virginal and that thought makes Harry's prick jump in his hand. He wonders what it would have been like to be the first man in Malfoy's arse, the one to show him how brilliant sex could be. "I still want to feel you, you know."

Harry takes a deep breath, his teeth catching his bottom lip before he lets it out. "Oh, you'll feel me. Promise." He slicks his length one more time to make sure. Christ, he's so hard. He doesn't know how long he'll be able to last once he breaches Malfoy's tight hole.

"Promises, promises," Malfoy says, exhaling softly. Harry can see the curve of his lips through the curtain of his hair.

Harry goes up on his knees, getting his balance solid, then leans in, pressing his slick and dripping cock to Malfoy's arsehole. He gasps a breath as Malfoy pushes back against him. "Wait." He rubs over Malfoy's cleft and then feels himself slot home within the furl, Malfoy's arse opening around him.

"God damn it," he groans out, holding back with great difficulty whilst Malfoy shifts his hips. He knows it's important to wait, to let Malfoy's body adjust to the intrusion, even if his pulse is hammering in his ears and he wants to piston his hips into the delicious, welcoming heat of Malfoy's arse.

This shouldn't feel so good, he thinks, lust-dazed and trembling. He shouldn't be this close with one touch, barely inside Malfoy's body. But it does, and it's amazing. Harry thought he'd done everything, with everyone before Malfoy, but he's never had sex like this. His nerves are on fire, and this is just the sodding prelude.

"Move, Potter," Malfoy commands, body stretched and arse taut around Harry's length. His voice is soft, aching, and Harry presses forward with the weight of his body, bracing himself against Malfoy's shoulder and slowly lowering himself.

"Circe, yes." Malfoy stretches a hand above him, other hand pulling his knee up further. "Fuck me." Harry watches the muscles in Malfoy's back shift, feeling him shift inside as well. It's overwhelming, and Harry breathes for a moment, just here, trying to hold off his climax a bit more. He could tip over so easily, and Malfoy's breathy little moans are not helping his resistance.

Harry's balls slap Malfoy's arsecheek, and Harry shivers, rocking back and forth. Harry stretches his leg out, pushing against the baseboard of the bed with his heel for control. His hips thrust shallowly, and Malfoy's pushing his arse back, impaling himself on Harry, making soft noises that go straight to Harry's prick. Harry rocks, his right hand curling around Malfoy's hip to hold him close. Malfoy looks so amazing like this, pressed against Harry, their bodies so close that Harry can feel every move Malfoy makes. It's tight and intimate, and Harry's heart thuds wildly in his chest. He can smell Malfoy, the musky scent of arousal, the fruity hint of the wine, the faint crispness of Malfoy's soap. He presses his face against Malfoy's shoulder, feeling the shift of their bollocks together as Harry thrusts shallowly into Malfoy. 

"Is that good?" Harry asks, more to hear Malfoy's moan than anything else. He knows it's good, knows he's going to come inside Malfoy in about two seconds at this rate.

"Merlin, yes." Malfoy elongates further, hand wrapped around the edge of Harry's headboard, knee up as high as he can lift it, his breath coming in ragged pants. "God, Potter, I love it when you fuck me."

In response, Harry pumps his hips harder into Malfoy, then reaches around, his hand sliding beneath Malfoy's knee, his cock rocking into him harder. Harry focuses all of his energy on his hips thrusting into Malfoy's arse in short, sharp jabs. This isn't a position that allows a lot of motion, but it's so close, so intimate even. Harry can feel all of Malfoy's body against him, his body tensing and loosening, allowing him in further. They rock like that a few moments, Harry panting with Malfoy opening beneath him. Harry doesn't really want it to end, but he wants to get Malfoy there before he loses control. "Come on, Malfoy. I know you're close."

Malfoy shimmies his hips, gasping, his skin slick against Harry's. "Oh, God, I am. I'm so close."

Harry leans to press an awkward kiss against his shoulder. "Then come on, baby," he whispers against Malfoy's skin. "Let go. I've got you." Malfoy shudders and groans, his body twisting against Harry's. 

"Oh. Oh. Right---Fuck, there. Fuck, Potter," Malfoy's voice is high, throaty, and Harry picks up his pace, slamming into Malfoy as Malfoy keens and then bucks against Harry's, his body coiling and tensing in a convulsing climax. 

And that's all it takes for Harry, feeling Malfoy come apart under him. His own body seizes in a clenching surge that shudders all the way to his toes and then his own shout is loud in his throat as he slumps over Malfoy's back, body pulsing wetly inside Malfoy's spread arse.

There's sweat and lube and come everywhere, and Harry could care less. He leans a bit more heavily on his left arm, trying not to crush Malfoy beneath him. He can barely breathe, barely think. He came so hard, he thinks he might have ruptured something, but he feels amazing, his body glowing with exertion and release.

"Was that okay?" Harry whispers softly, when he can form sounds again.

Malfoy laughs, his back shaking a little with the movement. "For the first time, sure."

Harry snorts against Malfoy's shoulder. "Let me catch my breath for a second, Jesus Christ, man." He rolls off of Malfoy and lies splayed across the bed on his back, coming back to himself. That was intense, but Harry has no doubt that he can go again soon. Malfoy has that effect on him, like no one else has ever had, not even Jake, and their sex life had been brilliant. The prospect of what else he and Malfoy might do next is already causing Harry's cock to stir a little.

Malfoy rolls onto his side, lying long and flushed next to Harry. "Hand me my wine, Potter." His tone is commanding, and Harry doesn't mind. Perhaps he's masochistic, but Harry finds all of Malfoy's little quirks ridiculously hot now. 

"Hold on." Harry sits up, holding steady with his core muscles as he hands the glass off to Malfoy, then sinks back against the sheets. His whole body aches.

Malfoy sits up, leaning against the headboard. He takes a swallow, and Harry watches the movement of Malfoy's long, pale throat. "This isn't half bad. Did Granger bring it by?"

"Are you suggesting I can't buy a good bottle of wine?" Harry smiles at him, letting his hand drift over Malfoy's golden-downed thigh.

"I'm not suggesting," Malfoy says, taking another swallow. "I'm flat-out saying." He tilts his head consideringly, looking at Harry. "Although, you know, we really should let Mother open up the cellar spells here. I'm curious about that collection of her family's."

Harry remembers Narcissa's promise weeks ago to help him find it. "Okay. Do you want me to bother her now?" He starts to sit up, hiding a smile when Malfoy stops him with his foot, pulling Harry back to the bed.

"Hardly. I was thinking more in a day or two." Malfoy lifts his wineglass again. 

"That sounds better." Harry's brain is coming back to him now. "Do you want me to say a cleaning spell?"

"I've trained you well." The look on Malfoy's face is positively proud. "But I was thinking perhaps a wet flannel tonight." 

"Spoilt, are we?" Harry asks, and Malfoy just smiles. Harry gets up reluctantly, feet hitting the boards of the floor. He walks to the bath, pisses, and finds a fresh flannel for Malfoy. He wipes himself off with the towel he took from the floor, then puts it in the hamper. He stops to look at himself in the mirror above the sink, at his rumpled hair and bright eyes. He looks well fucked already, he thinks, and he swears his reflection winks at him. 

"Oh, stop it," Harry says to the house, and he hears the eaves grumble above him. Harry shakes his head. "Incorrigible."

When Harry comes back with a warm, wet flannel, Malfoy is sprawled luxuriantly across his bed, fingers drifting across his half-hard cock. "I was thinking perhaps you'd flannel me off."

"Oh were you?" Harry says, inwardly pleased. He acts put-upon, though. "Is this what you want, milord?" He bats Malfoy's hands away from his prick and drags the flannel over Malfoy's shaft, careful to remove the traces of dried spunk. He smoothes it over Malfoy's taut belly, letting it skim across Malfoy's skin, then he flits it across Malfoy's nipples, just to watch him squirm. Merlin, but Malfoy does have such sensitive nipples. Harry bites his lip as they harden into small, pink-brown nubs. "If you don't hold still, I have a set of nipple clamps you might like."

There's a rush of breath, Malfoy's chest shuddering beneath Harry's touch, and Malfoy's grey eyes are wide when Harry looks up at him. "Like I said before, promises, Potter," Malfoy murmurs. "Promises."

Harry's pretty sure that means "Yes, please," in Malfoyish, but he still wants to confirm. "So, does that mean yes?" He raises an eyebrow at Malfoy, who licks his bottom lip, his fingers slipping back to his prick.

"You could get them out," Malfoy says, his cheeks flushed and eyes downcast. His jaw works a bit. "And we could see." 

So, very much a _yes please,_ Harry thinks. First, though, he turns Malfoy over and wipes the flannel down the cleft of his arse. His hand stills when he notices a palm-sized bruise on Malfoy's left arse cheek that Harry didn't see before. Malfoy must not have healed it Thursday night. Harry presses it and is rewarded with a hiss and a slapped hand from Malfoy.

"You left one." Harry's smiling, and he doesn't know why, not quite, but he's bloody chuffed. Malfoy has this effect on him, makes Harry want to mark him, makes him want every bloody person who sees Malfoy to know he's Harry's. 

Malfoy looks back over his shoulder, twisting his upper body towards Harry. "I wanted a trophy."

"I thought you were going to say you missed one in the mirror," Harry says, surprised by Malfoy's candour.

"How ever would you know that I liked it, then?" Malfoy's eyes are bright. Warm. His mouth quirks to one side. 

"Valid point," Harry concedes. Malfoy's logic is impeccable, as always. Harry lets his fingers smooth across the bruise, barely touching it. 

"I believe you said something about clamps," Malfoy says, rolling onto his back. His cock bobs a bit in the air, still not quite hard. "Where might they be?"

Harry's gaze slips over to the toy chest on top of the dresser. They haven't explored it together yet, although Harry's keen as hell to. But only when Malfoy's ready. 

"Oh," Malfoy says, and he sits up, drawing his knees to his chest. He looks interested. "Show me?"

Harry slips off the bed and pads over to the chest. A soft mumble of the password, but loud enough for Malfoy to hear, and it opens to his touch. Harry runs his hands down to the small drawers, opening and closing them until he finds the one he wants, filled with clamps of different shapes and sizes. He picks out a set of simple alligator clamps, joined together with a silver chain. The cloverleaf ones are really only for special occasions, although Harry supposes any day's a good day for predicament bondage. He does wonder for a moment if Malfoy would like the nipple suckers, but he thinks the clamps are the right start.

"Have you done this before?" Harry asks. "Clamps, I mean?"

Malfoy gives him a sharp look. "I'm not a fucking virgin, Potter."

"I think that's a bit of an oxymoron," Harry says with a grin, and Malfoy flicks two fingers at him. 

"Don't make me explain how virginity is a social construct," Malfoy says, and Harry laughs. 

"You sound like Hermione," Harry says, "and I have to say that's a bit off-putting with you naked in my bed like that."

Malfoy just huffs at him. "If you don't get back here, I'm going to wank myself off, and you can service your own sodding prick."

"You wish." Looking at the drawers, Harry takes a smooth black, slightly twisted plug as well. Fuck it. If Malfoy doesn't like it, Harry can use it on himself. That thought sends a shiver down his spine. God, but Harry wouldn't mind having this jammed up his arsehole right now. He's never understood how anyone could not want to be fucked, even though he's met some men who swore they only topped. Harry loves both, fucking and being fucked. To be honest, he's up for anything that's going to give him a proper good orgasm. He's not that picky.

Malfoy is watching Harry with an uncanny, level gaze as he comes back to the bed. "Let me see."

Harry hands Malfoy the clamps, coiling the heavy chain into Malfoy's outstretched palm. Malfoy's hand drops an inch or so from the weight, and his eyes flutter. "Oh." Malfoy plays with the mechanism experimentally, clamping the rubber-tipped alligator clip to his finger, then playing with the tightening screws.

"Do they meet your specifications?" Harry asks. He's oddly nervous, afraid that Malfoy will say no, and Harry wants so badly to see the chain draped across that pale, thin chest of his.

To his relief, Malfoy nods. "Yes. They're just right." He glances over, a small smile quirking his lips. "Can I see the plug?"

Harry hands the smooth twist of silicone with the flared, rounded base.

Malfoy strokes his thumb across it. "This is nice."

Harry nods. "It's a wizarding luxury model from the States. I bought it at a San Francisco sex shop a while back. And it vibrates."

Malfoy narrows his eyes at Harry. "Did you use this one on Durant?" There's a rumble of jealousy in his voice that goes straight to Harry's prick. 

Yes, Harry thinks, remembering Jake stretched out on this bed, the plug spreading him wide. But Jake'd used it on Harry, far more often.

"Does it matter?" Harry asks Malfoy, genuinely curious. He looks at Malfoy's tight, uncertain face, and something in his expression makes Harry's voice soften. He touches Malfoy's thigh, lets his hand smooth across Malfoy's soft skin. "I mean, really, you won, yeah?"

The bright, wide smile Malfoy rewards Harry with makes Harry's stomach flip. "True." Malfoy reaches for Harry, pulling him into a quick, rough kiss that makes Harry's toes curl against the thick rug beneath his bed. "And you're my prize, Potter," Malfoy whispers against Harry's lips. Harry draws in a ragged breath, Malfoy's words sending a shudder of want through him, before Malfoy pushes him away, stretching back over the width of Harry's bed, his feet pressed into the side of the mattress, his knees spread wide. "Use the plug on me."

Harry notices that Malfoy has the clamps coiled tightly in his hand still. He'll let Malfoy play with those right now, unless Malfoy asks him for help putting them on. He bends down and with a bit more lube smeared across the silicone and into Malfoy's already stretched arse, slides the flared plug easily into Malfoy. Malfoy gasps a little, sitting up slightly, his eyes unfocussing just a bit. Harry knows that expression from his own use of the plug. It feels bloody brilliant settling into you, finding the right position deep inside your arsehole.

"Good?" Harry asks, hiding his smile.

Malfoy nods, leaning back again. He licks his lips, shifts his hips. "Yeah."

Harry circles over to the other side of the bed, picking up his wand from the surface, along with his half-empty wineglass. Malfoy's finished his own; there's maybe a swallow of wine left. Harry grabs it and drains it before setting it back down on the dresser. There's something about drinking the dregs of Malfoy's wine that makes Harry's prick swell. Fuck, but he's a deviant if that's all it takes to get him hard, Harry thinks with a smile. He takes his time to return to his position between Malfoy's spread knees. 

Malfoy looks up at him, and spreads his knees wider.

Harry takes a sip of his wine, eyeing the way Malfoy looks, flushed and relaxed, spread out on the mussed coverlet. He's bloody goddamned gorgeous like this, soft and sensual. Malfoy's everything from Harry's fantasies. 

"Do you like the view?" Malfoy asks, looking up at him. He stretches his arms up over his head, arches his back, tilts his hips so Harry can see the flared base of the plug against the crease of his arse. Malfoy's breath catches at the movement, and his teeth worry his lip between them.

"It's an excellent view." Harry considers. "Although, it could be improved." He sloshes a trickle of wine across Malfoy's navel. 

Malfoy jerks as the cool wine runs across his skin. "What the--" 

Harry leans down, over Malfoy's hips, his prick, and sucks the wine back out. Malfoy gasps, his hips arching up. "Do you like that?" Harry asks. Malfoy's breathing hard.

"Yeah," Malfoy says with a nod. His hips shift, his heels press against the side of the bed. "Although I believe you said something about vibrating?"

Harry flicks his wand against the base of the plug and says the spell, and the plug starts to vibrate in Malfoy's arse. Malfoy stutters out a moan. Harry almost swears; Malfoy looks so incredible like this. "Good?"

"More," Malfoy manages to say, and he lifts his hips again. Harry taps his wand against the plug once more, and the pattern intensifies. Malfoy squirms. "Oh, yeah," Malfoy says a bit breathlessly. "That's really good."

Harry lays his wand on the shelf. He can voice control the plug now that it's activated. He could have done it wandlessly, but he wants to make sure he's focussed tonight, between the wine and the Gillyweed and Malfoy himself. Malfoy goes to Harry's head something fierce, and Harry's magic threatens to spill out everywhere when he's near.

As Malfoy twists against the coverlet, Harry considers. He dips his finger in his wine, dripping droplets over Malfoy's nipples, then chasing them with his tongue, the tip flicking lightly around Malfoy's areolas. Malfoy's panting now. Harry creates a droplet pattern over Malfoy's collarbones, sucking up the salty sweetness of the wine and Malfoy's skin, then from the hollow of Malfoy's neck, the dip of Malfoy's sternum.

"Turn over," Harry says, and Malfoy does, his beautiful arse on perfect display, the rounded black bulb of the plug visible between his arsecheeks.

Harry splashes a bit of wine in the hollow of Malfoy's lower back, then licks it off. "Hold still," he says, and then he does it again, his tongue dragging along the curve of Malfoy's spine, down into Malfoy's crease, stopping only when Harry tastes the slick silicone of the plug. His fingers follow along, the tips featherlight across Malfoy's skin. Malfoy's trembling and keening under Harry's touch, and Harry doesn't think he's ever seen such a beautiful sight.

Harry sets his wine aside, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth. "You look bloody amazing," he says, trailing a hand over Malfoy's hip. And Malfoy does--his hair is tousled across his face, brushing over his shoulders and his hips are circling slightly with the vibrations of the plug. Malfoy's fully hard now, Harry imagines. 

Malfoy's shoulders rise as he inhales. "I _feel_ bloody amazing." His voices sounds dreamy, his mouth half-muffled against the coverlet. Harry watches Malfoy's feet flex, his toes curling up with each quiet buzz of the plug in his arse.

"What else would you like?" Harry strokes a hand along Malfoy's hip. He loves making Malfoy feel like this, loves seeing the way Malfoy's body responds to his. He could lie in bed forever with Malfoy and be perfectly happy. Harry'd never thought sex could be like that. He's always been chasing after the orgasm, desperate for that final shudder of release that leaves him languid and sated. With Malfoy Harry loves the journey, loves the way Malfoy's body trembles beneath his touch, the way gooseflesh rises on Malfoy's arms, the way Malfoy's skin flushes and blotches as Harry's hands trail across his skin. Harry could come from watching him like this, he thinks. His voice is rough when he says, "I'll do anything."

"I want you. In me," Malfoy manages to get out, his hips arching up. "And I'd like to try these." He stretches a hand back to Harry, with the now warm chain with clamps attached.

Harry nods. "Okay." He taps the plug lightly. "And this?"

"Oh, a little bit longer." Malfoy's arse rolls back against Harry's hand. "Maybe another level of vibration?" Harry says the spell again, and Malfoy cries out, his hips jerking, his face pressing into the bed, his hair spread across the coverlet. "Oh. Oh, yeah. That." His hips are circling more, and Harry doesn't want Malfoy to get too close, but fuck if he's not loving the view.

"Turn over again," Harry says. Malfoy complies, landing with a soft thump and a groan against the mattress, his legs spread wide so Harry can stand between them. Harry tests one of the clamps on his own thumb, shifting the screw a little, then he reaches out gently, watching Malfoy. "Get your tit hard," Harry says, and Malfoy pinches his own nipple, rolling it between his fingers until it's hard and long. Harry presses the tips of the clamp around it, letting go. Malfoy gasps. 

"Okay?" Harry knows that Malfoy's enjoying it from the expression on his face, but he needs to make sure. He doesn't want to do anything that hurts Malfoy, anything that makes him uncomfortable.

"Merlin, yes." Malfoy's breath is coming in sharp, quick pants now. His cock is hard against his stomach, and he's pulling at his other nipple, scraping his thumbnail against the hard nub. "Try the other one."

With a bit of fiddling, Harry clamps Malfoy's other nipple. Malfoy's gasp and then moan goes straight to Harry's cock, and Harry realises he's dripping again and hard enough to drive nails. "Jesus, Malfoy," Harry murmurs, looking down at him, at the way the silver chain shines against Malfoy's pale skin.

Malfoy blinks up at him. "Okay," he says breathlessly, his knees nearly bent to the mattress itself. "I think you can fuck me now."

"You know how to get them off, if you need?" Harry pushes himself back to standing, surveying the debauched sight of Draco Malfoy spread across his bed, silver chain draped across his narrow chest, nipples pinched, and hips circling from the vibrations within. Harry's going to come to thoughts of this for the rest of his goddamned life.

"Yes." Malfoy bites his lip, concentrating. "But how do I make them tighter?"

"Twist the screw clockwise. Or ask me to?" Harry runs his hands along the insides of Malfoy's thighs, feeling them tremble beneath his palms.

Malfoy plays with one of the clamps, wincing as it tightens and then breathing out. "Oh, that's good."

Harry shakes his head, smiling down at him. Malfoy's always unexpected, particularly in bed, but he does like pleasure, and that's what's important. Harry doesn't care how they get off, as long as Malfoy's enjoying himself and feels like he's in control of it. Harry's happy to give him whatever he asks for.

Harry murmurs the spell to turn off the vibrations and gently reaches to pull the flared plug out of Malfoy's arse. Malfoy arches his hips and hisses. Harry casts a quick Scourgify wandlessly, and is surprised when the gust of lemony-scented air is more powerful than he expects. At least the toy is clean. He lays it aside.

"Wow, I felt that one." Malfoy's cheeks are flushed. "Cold, Potter."

"Sorry," Harry's sheepish. Sometimes he doesn't quite realise his power. "It was a bit stronger than I expected." He summons the lube, then rubs another good handful across his prick. He knows Malfoy's ready, but he still wants to be careful.

"Don't put too much more slick up me," Malfoy admonishes. "I don't want you fucking sliding out."

Harry laughs. "Hey, come here."

With Harry's hands guiding him, Malfoy shifts across the mattress until his fingers are curled around the edge of the bed. "Now what?" His cock is leaking against his stomach.

"Legs over my shoulders." Harry lifts one of Malfoy's long legs, placing Malfoy's ankle over Harry's shoulder. "Like this."

Harry pulls Malfoy's other leg up, then reaches down to hold Malfoy's lower back with one hand, guiding his prick into his arse with the other. He shifts, trying to get the angle of insertion right. When he succeeds, he slides home easily within Malfoy's slick and eager arse. Christ, it's fucking amazing.

"Oh, fuck. That's. Fuck." Malfoy's fingers dig into the sheets at the end of the bed, his knuckles white. His eyes are wide as he looks up at Harry. "Merlin, if you don't fuck me, Potter, and fuck me well, I swear to all that's holy I will murder you tonight in this bloody bed, I will--" He breaks off into a keening groan, his feet pressing against Harry's shoulders. " _Shit._ "

Harry puts another hand under Malfoy's back, lifting him up and then thrusting harder. The slope of his arse around Harry's cock is incredible, and Harry can move more easily now that Malfoy's been stretched. Harry bends into his knees, trying to get the angle of his thrust right, and he's rewarded by a shout as Malfoy almost comes off the bed.

"Oh Circe. Fuck. Potter. Fuck. Do that again." Malfoy's face is contorted with pleasure, and the chain from the clamps slides across Malfoy's chest as Harry fucks into him, modulating his position for maximum impact. Malfoy digs his heels into Harry's shoulders, his body clenching around Harry's prick. "Damn it, you arsehole, put your back into it."

Harry's thrusts are hard enough that Malfoy is bouncing up with each impact, his shouts getting louder and louder as he begs Harry to fuck him harder. Harry's not sure what the house is making of this, but the room now smells like roses, so he figures it must be generally positive. The light from the sconces along the wall is also a glimmering, glittering gold, spilling warm and soft across the bed, over Malfoy's smooth skin, and Harry could watch Malfoy bounce on his prick for hours. 

Malfoy's arms are taut with the effort of holding on to the edge of the bed. His eyes are shut and his hair is impossibly wild and tangled against the coverlet. He's thrashing beneath Harry, his hips twisting with each thrust of Harry's cock. "Harder," Malfoy cries out, and his voice is raw and rough. "Please, please, Potter, oh God, yes, your prick is incredible, feels incredible, Merlin--" He groans, his foot slipping off Harry's shoulder, his heel pressing against Harry's bicep. "I love being fucked," he chokes out. "By you. Yes, you gorgeous fucking bastard, I need you inside me like this, fuck--" His voice rises, fills the room. Everything's Malfoy and everything's beautiful and Harry can barely breathe himself, his whole body's tense and shuddering and hot. 

Harry shifts again, getting a little lower whilst holding the arch of Malfoy's hips higher, and Malfoy shouts on the next thrust upwards, his untouched cock pulsing in thick, white strands across his belly. Harry stills, watching Malfoy writhe beneath him, his hair catching on his open mouth, his whole body clenching and shaking around Harry's prick.

Malfoy falls back against the mattress, his limbs loose and liquid.

Gently, Harry drops Malfoy's limp legs down from his shoulders to draped over the edge of the bed, and he takes off the nipple clamps, knowing from experience they'll pinch when released. He rubs Malfoy's chest gently to bring the circulation back. 

With a soft sigh, Malfoy opens his eyes, staring up at him wide eyed and sex drunk. He opens his mouth, then closes it again, breathing out. He runs his hands over his face.

"Fuck," Malfoy says finally, and his voice sounds so very fragile. "Fuck." He draws in a slow breath. "Potter, that was fucking amazing."

Harry can't help but agree. The sight of Malfoy coming from being fucked alone is one he won't soon forget. He lets himself slide out of Malfoy's arse, slowly, carefully. He's still so bloody hard. It'll take him a stroke or two to come, he knows. For now he just wants to look at Malfoy, spread out beneath him. 

"You need to get off." Malfoy waves a floppy arm in the general vicinity of Harry's cock.

"I want to wank on your stomach if you'll let me." Harry can barely believe he's asking, but it's what he needs, what he's thought of doing again since the first time he and Malfoy fucked. He's so fucking close already.

Malfoy smiles and settles back against the sheets, stretching out his arms, stomach taut and presenting a flat surface to Harry. His knees dangle over the edge of the bed. "Have at. As long as I can just lie here."

Harry leans back on his heels, cock hard over Malfoy. He pushes Malfoy's thighs wider. "It's going to take about a minute," he chokes out, his fist already sliding over his slick length.

"I'll time it," Malfoy whispers, watching him through half-closed eyes.

Harry focuses on the softness of Malfoy's skin beneath him, still feeling Malfoy's body clenching around him, and then, just when he thinks it can't get more intense, he realises. _I am so fucking in love with Draco Malfoy._ It's like a bolt out of the blue, the thought so clear in his head it's like he's spoken it out loud.

He cries out, strips of warm spunk painting Malfoy's lovely, smooth stomach, falling forward against Malfoy's body, feeling Malfoy's arms come around him, holding him as his whole body shakes. 

"Potter," Malfoy's murmuring against his ear, and he's pulling Harry up onto the bed, wrapping himself around Harry. "Potter, Potter, my lovely Potter…" 

Harry folds in on himself, letting Malfoy hold him close as Harry trembles, their bodies sticky and hot together, feeling like his heart came out through his cock. The realisation, compounded by an astonishingly vivid orgasm, has Harry shuddering and hollow.

Malfoy strokes Harry's hair, still wrapped around him, kissing Harry's face lightly. When Harry's breath finally slows, Malfoy pulls back, looking down at him. He brushes his fingertips across Harry's cheeks. "You've never come like that," Malfoy says.

"No." Harry exhales, rolling onto his side. They're so close, Harry can see the faint flecks of gold hidden deep in Malfoy's eyes. "That was intense."

"Yeah." Malfoy's thumb drags over Harry's bottom lip. "For me too."

Harry casts a cleaning charm over them both. They lie silently for a moment, then Malfoy breathes out and says, "Let me spend the night? I can't bear to go. Not tonight."

"As if I could bear to let you go tonight," Harry says, and they look at each other until Malfoy presses his face against Harry's shoulder. Harry lies still, their bodies tangled together until Malfoy falls asleep. He looks up at the ceiling, where tiny fairy lights are sparkling and shimmering. They weren't there before. Harry bloody well knows. Malfoy shifts, murmurs something against Harry's shoulder before settling back into sleep. A wave of raw protectiveness wells up in Harry, strong and rough and oh so fucking bittersweet.

This is what love is. Harry's never felt it before. 

Bloody fucking hell, he thinks. 

He draws in a slow, shuddering breath, his arms tightening around Malfoy's body.

***

Blaise sits in a chair in the antechamber to the Minister's office and scowls. He respects Shacklebolt, he does, but he doesn't bloody like being summoned here at ten in the morning on a Sunday. He'd had to endure another interminable family dinner at the Beaumont last night, and the tension between his mother and his grandfather is only bearable with too much wine chased with a few lashings of good brandy for afters. Although, to be honest, there's not enough bloody alcohol in the world to make his grandfather less eerie and imperious. Barachiel's been up with the Dementors a bit too much, Blaise thinks privately. He's clearly far more used to spending time with the dead than with the living, and his manners show it. Olivia'd said as much last night between the fish and the mains. His grandfather had chuckled, but Blaise didn't find it fucking funny. He found it fucking creepy as hell.

Plus Blaise still has a faint headache from the wine and the brandy, despite double-dosing himself with hangover potion after the Ministry owl had scratched at his kitchen window. And he's worried about exactly what's so urgent that the Minister's had to call them in with an hour's notice. There've been too many surprises lately. He could have done well with one unbroken weekend of rest, ta ever so.

"What do you think this is about?" Pansy murmurs next to him. She's sleepy eyed and quiet, her black leather jacket drawn about her and a short, black lace dress visible beneath her open neckline. In her off hours, Pansy adheres to a style Blaise likes to think of as Kensington punk, a mixture of Harvey Nichols and Camden street style. He's sure the jacket is McQueen or something similar, but her green velvet Docs came from the shoe shops round the corner from her flat.

Blaise shrugs, rubbing a hand nervously over his elbow. He shouldn't rub; it'll wrinkle his favourite ivory silk-and-cotton summer jumper, but the habit's hard to break. He can hear his mother's voice in his ear, nagging him about his little tics and their effects on his clothing.

He hears voices, and both he and Pansy turn in sync to see Hermione Granger walking towards them with Jake Durant, followed by Potter with Gawain Robards. Draco is trailing behind, looking a bit lost. And more than a bit sexually sated, if Blaise is any judge. Plus, he's fairly certain he's seen that blue Oxford shirt on Potter at least once in the past few weeks. It's practically hanging off Draco's shoulders, the cuffs rolled up twice but not enough to show anything more than the edge of his scarred Mark. Draco's face brightens when he sees them, and he slinks over.

"Fancy meeting you here," Draco's lips quirk in an ironic smile, but Blaise can see the tiredness in his eyes, not to mention the dark circles, and honestly, Blaise is going to give Draco a talking to about his skincare regimen if he doesn't start taking more care with it soon. It won't do to be as rough as Potter, with a scrub of bar soap and a splash of water on the best of days. Draco's got terribly thin skin as it is. In so many ways.

"Yeah, it seems like it's us with the heads, which is never a good sign." Pansy looks over at the knot of people talking. "Although what Durant's doing here, I'm not sure."

"Oh, they tapped him to welcome the Luxembourg team with Potter yesterday," Blaise purses his lips, a surly twist of jealousy going through him. He doesn't like Jake hanging out with his ex, if he's honest. Even if it's just the guv and Blaise knows how sodding besotted Potter is for Draco. All in all, Blaise has no right to complain, but still. "I'm sure that was brilliant fun for everyone."

Draco scowls and shoots a nasty look in the direction of Durant's back, which annoys Blaise, hypocrite that he is.

"Oi." Pansy swats Draco lightly. "You've really got to stop being obvious, love."

"Besides," Blaise leans back, knowing Draco's not going to like what he says. "If anyone has a right to be sour about the situation, it's Durant."

Draco snorts, but he's mercifully distracted when Althea Whitaker comes rushing in, clad in a crisp white button-up and fitted black jeans that cup her taut arse in just the right way, Blaise thinks, and Circe, but he needs get laid soon if he's noticing Althea's body like that.

The door to Shacklebolt's office swings open. "Are we all here?" Shacklebolt's voice is low, but it carries across the room.

Potter nods, and Blaise thinks there's something different about him. Almost softer in an odd way, especially when his gaze falls on Draco. "Yes. My team's here." He shoots the Slytherins a brief smile, as they stand, then turns to welcome Whitaker. Blaise narrows his eyes at the guv. Weird. And probably not in a good way.

Shacklebolt's office is opulent and cool. Blaise admires how minimal his sense of design is--most wizarding decorators go over the top with gilt surfaces and ridiculous colour schemes. Shacklebolt's main tones are jewel purple and blue, with rich polished wood accents and dark leather. It's masculine and also nicely proportioned. Blaise approves. Shacklebolt's got some very impressive surveillance instruments behind his desk, a Secrecy Sensor and a Foe-Glass, not to mention the largest Sneakoscope Blaise has seen. They aren't gold-plated at all. Or decorative either, Blaise suspects as he sits down.

The deep leather chairs are arranged around an enormous, rather modern dark wood desk. Potter settles next to Robards, and Jake's on the other side with Hermione. Jake winks at Blaise as he sits down, and Blaise hides a smile, his leftover tension bleeding away. The Seven-Four-Alpha team are in a group to the left of Potter. Blaise knows they're not the focal point of whatever this meeting is supposed to be.

"My apologies for pulling you in on a Sunday," Shacklebolt says. He leans back in his large swivelling leather armchair. It's hovering a few inches off the ground, no legs in sight, and Blaise is pleasantly surprised to see this marriage of form and magic. It swivels beautifully too, like a regular desk chair. As is his wont, when he sees something gorgeous, opulent, and understatedly impressive, Blaise wants it immediately. It'd look brilliant in his sitting room, he thinks, and he's damned certain he couldn't afford it on his constable's paycheque.

Blaise glances over to the other side of the room. Jake and Granger have pulled out notepads, and Blaise wishes he'd brought one himself. He digs in his pocket for his Auror pocketbook, flipping it open to a clean page. He hasn't a quill though, so he nudges Draco, who nudges Potter, who looks over at Blaise, then rolls his eyes, taking a Muggle biro from his pocket and passing it over. Blaise frowns at it, but what the fuck. It'll do.

"I've spoken to Hermione and Gawain about this already this morning," Shacklebolt says, "but I asked them to be present in case there were any additional questions from you lot." He steeples his fingers against his mouth, then sighs. "I had a high-level meeting yesterday after the Luxembourg representatives left, with Timothy McGillicudy and Paloma Grimsditch of MACUSA's Surveillance Wizarding Resources Department." He looks over at Jake, dropping his hands into his lap. "Colleagues of yours, Unspeakable Durant."

"In theory," Jake says, and Blaise marvels at his calm comfort sitting in front of the Minister of Magic. Just a look from Shacklebolt has Blaise shifting like a nervous schoolboy. "They're Unspeakables, but my department doesn't overlap all that much with theirs."

Shacklebolt nods. "They'd already met with Saul Croaker earlier in the day, and Saul assured me that he is convinced of the validity of their concerns." 

Blaise exchanges a look with Draco, raising his eyebrow. Draco shrugs. Evidently Potter hasn't been informed about this, or he hasn't told Draco about it at least. Blaise glances over to the guv, who's starting to scowl. He doesn't know then, Blaise guesses. Interesting."

"Antonin Dolohov has been spotted," Shacklebolt says, leaning forward, his elbows on his desk. His gaze sweeps across the room. "MACUSA has credible-- _very_ credible, might I add--evidence that he's currently hiding out in the New York metropolitan area. There's been chatter among wizarding extremist groups they monitor that suggests he's been there since he fled England before the raid on Malfoy Manor." Shacklebolt glances towards Draco, but he doesn't say anything to him. Draco clenches his fists against his thighs, and Blaise can feel the tension radiating from him. Potter nudges his knee against Draco's, so quickly that you might barely notice it. Blaise does, and he feels Draco start to relax beside him. The guv might frustrate him at times, Blaise thinks, but he's good for Draco. Right now at least. Blaise just hopes it stays that way.

"So what do you want us to do about that?" Potter asks. "We could send a retrieval team--"

"And we will," Shacklebolt says. "You."

Potter falls silent, the look on his face inscrutable.

Blaise looks between Pansy and Draco, before he says, "You want _us_ to go to New York to capture Dolohov?" Althea's on Pansy's other side, quiet, her face stony. He thinks she's unhappy with this plan as well.

"Yes," Shacklebolt says calmly. "I know it's a bit unorthodox given our extradition treaty with MACUSA, but they're also requesting our assistance in containing Dolohov, given they believe he's part of a group in the Northeastern states stirring up sentiments of wizarding supremacy."

"Isn't that standard for the States?" Pansy asks. "I thought they believed in strict separation between wizards and Muggles."

"That's been changing in recent years," Jake says, his voice a bit prickly. "And MACUSA doesn't support wizarding supremacy. It's operated under an isolationist policy for most of its history, but since the bombings five years back it's worked more closely with the Muggle government." His face is shuttered; there's something he's not saying, Blaise thinks. He can see Jake make the attempt to relax himself. "It's not that wizarding supremacist groups don't exist. We just try to stamp them out as best we can. MACUSA's not interested in a war between wizards and Muggles."

Like you lot, Blaise can almost hear him saying. Well, he can't blame Jake. MACUSA has plenty of problems of their own.

Shacklebolt's mouth twitches. "Yes, well, the group Dolohov appears to be working with has ties to Europe, particularly the UK, which is why McGillicudy and Grimsditch came over. I've agreed that assisting them in return for Dolohov's removal from the States is absolutely within our mandate, as well as the special relationship between our two countries, and the Muggle PM has signed off on the plan." 

"So we don't have a choice," Potter says. There's something in his voice that's bordering on anger.

"I thought you wanted to catch Antonin Dolohov, Harry." Shacklebolt gives him an even look. "This is your chance."

Potter leans forward. "It's ridiculous and a waste of time when we could be here doing something more profitable. Going after Peasegood, or helping with the Luxembourg transitions--" His voice rises and a file jacket on Shacklebolt's desk bursts into flame. 

"Or doing your fucking job," Shacklebolt says. He slaps another file jacket against the burning one. "And stand down, Harry." His eyes meet Potter's, his mouth a grim line. "Calm yourself. _Now._ "

Potter's face twists. "The extradition treaties," Potter starts to say, but the look on Shacklebolt's face stops him. 

"Guv," Draco says, his voice light, and Potter sinks back in his seat. The smouldering file jacket on Shacklebolt's desk fades into ashes. Blaise sincerely hopes there's a copy of it somewhere. Granger's looking over at Potter, a slight frown on her face. Jake's watching Draco, and Blaise doesn't quite like the cool, assessing look he's giving him.

"Given the current embattled state of your department," Shacklebolt says, "Gawain agrees with me that bringing in Antonin Dolohov and settling this goddamned mess that has been made once and for all is our utmost priority. Unless, of course, you want to be under Luxembourg's thumb with Akingbade alone determining the way our Government conducts itself?"

The room's silent. 

"I thought not." Shacklebolt leans back in his chair. "Whilst I am without doubt grateful for the ICW's assistance and their guidance during this difficult time, we will remain self-determining for as long as I hold this office. Akingbade and his cronies in the ICW are starting to suggest that I call for a general election over this matter. Clean the slate if you will. That's not something I think possible at the moment. We need stability. A win of some sort, and if that means I send Seven-Four-Alpha to the States, I'll do it. Am I understood?"

Potter nods curtly. 

Shacklebolt looks over at Jake. "And you, Unspeakable Durant. Whilst I realise we've asked to have your contract as a consultant extended, I believe this matter would be best resolved if you returned to New York with Inspector Potter's team as a liaison, and Paloma Grimsditch agrees. You know Seven-Four-Alpha, you've worked with them, and you'll be able to integrate them more fully with the MACUSA teams they'll be assisting."

"I--" Jake stops, his gaze flicking over to Potter. "I'm not certain that's a good idea, sir."

"Are you saying you and Inspector Potter can't get over your differences?" Shacklebolt's face is calm. Almost blank. "Because that would be the height of unprofessionalism on both your parts. And I've always thought of both of you as exceedingly professional."

Potter's mouth tightens. "It won't be an issue, Kingsley."

Blaise eyes Draco. He's practically stiff as a board between him and Potter, his jaw tight. Fucking Merlin, Blaise thinks, letting his gaze drift between Draco and Jake and the guv. This is going to be bloody awful, isn't it? He turns his head, looks at Pansy. She grimaces a bit, then shrugs. He knows she's right. What the fuck else are they going to do?

"I'm glad to hear that," Shacklebolt says. "Durant?"

Jake doesn't answer for a moment, then he says, "If this is what my government requires of me, then fine."

He doesn't sound happy. At all. Blaise's heart sinks a bit.

"I'll arrange for an International Portkey," Shacklebolt says. "MACUSA will be expecting you this afternoon, so I'd advise you to make whatever preparations you need for the trip."

"How long will we be gone, sir?" Althea asks. "It's just my father needs care--"

The look Shacklebolt gives her is gentle. "As long as it takes to complete the directive, Sergeant Whitaker. But if you require assistance with your father, I feel quite certain Gawain and Hermione will be more than happy to help. Yes?"

Robards nod, as does Granger. "Whatever you need, Althea," Robards says. 

Althea sits back in her chair. "I can make it work, sir."

Shacklebolt looks at Draco. "Sergeant Malfoy, the case against your father will obviously proceed. I can assure you the Department of Mysteries will have extra protection on him, and he will have free access to his solicitor whenever he requires. Your mother is also allowed to visit, should she desire."

"Thank you, sir," Draco says, and Granger leans forward. 

"We can also arrange for firecalls if you'd like, Malfoy," she says. "Harry and I can work it out."

Draco nods, his hair falling into his face. He brushes it back. "All right." He sounds tense still. 

This is all going to be shit, Blaise thinks. He wonders how quickly he could fill out transfer paperwork and have it approved. Probably not before the Portkey goes off, goddamn it. 

Shacklebolt hands a file jacket to Potter, then another to Jake. "This is MACUSA's report that was shared. I believe they'll have additional information for you when you arrive. Any questions?"

No one says anything. They don't dare, Blaise thinks. There's an undercurrent of tension coiling through the room, unspoken and unacknowledged. 

"Then this afternoon," Shacklebolt says. "Michael's put in the request for the Portkey; as soon as the timing is known, I'll pass that along to each of you. I'd expect late afternoon for a departure, however. We've had to pull in someone from the Portkey department to create it."

He sweeps the ashes of the file jacket off his desk, Vanishing them before they hit the carpet, and it's obvious he's done with them all. They all stand and make their way back out to the antechamber, all silent. 

All unhappy. 

Potter's flipping through the file jacket. Jake's across the room from him, head bent towards Granger's, obviously arguing with her. 

"Well," Pansy says. "On the bright side, there'll be brilliant shopping?"

Althea snorts in amusement. "As if you couldn't do that down Oxford Street."

"I'm not talking Topshop, lovey." Pansy gives her a cheeky grin, and Althea flips two fingers her way with a smile of her own, faint though it may be. Blaise is starting to find himself a bit unsettled by how smashingly those two are getting along.

Draco's just watching Potter, his face too open and vulnerable for Blaise's liking. "Hey," Blaise says, and Draco looks over at him. "Everything okay?"

"Yeah," Draco says, but his eyes drift over to Potter again. "Brilliant."

Potter looks up from his file jacket. "Incident room," he says to his team, with a glance over at Robards. "If that's all right with Gawain."

Robards nods. "I'll be at the Portkey to see you off." Robards follows them out of the antechamber, with a glance back at Granger and Jake still arguing in the corner.

Bertie's waiting near the lifts when they walk out, a file jacket in his hands. He passes it to Robards. "The final forensics report," he says, and he punches the lift button for them. "Just got it from Jones." He tilts a head towards Pansy. "With the extensive contributions from Constable Parkinson, of course."

"All the good parts are mine," Pansy says, a bit too cheerfully, and Blaise knows she's trying to diffuse the tension. 

Robards gives her a smile. "I'll keep that in mind," he says, and the lift doors slide open behind him. "Bertie?" he says, holding them open, and Bertie gives them all a quick, worried look, then steps in with the Head Auror. 

"We'll take the next one," Potter says, and Robards lets the doors slide closed. 

They're silent in the hallway. Potter waits, then says,. "This is all bollocks. You know this, yeah?"

"Of course it is." Draco steps closer to Potter, reaching over him to push another lift button. "But when the Minister sends you to fucking New York, you go." He looks at Potter, his mouth a thin line. "Whatever you might think of it."

Potter runs a hand through his hair. 

The lift doors slide open. 

"Fuck it," Potter says, and he steps in, the rest of the team following him. He punches the button for Level Two. "I reckon we're going to bloody America."

Yeah, Blaise thinks grimly as the door slides shut. This is going to be a great trip. Absolutely fucking topnotch.

Brilliant. Just sodding brilliant.

He slumps against the lift wall with a sigh.

***

Draco's the only one left in the incident room when Bertie sticks his head in. The rest have all gone home to pack; he's lingering, sorting through files he thinks they might need to take with them. They're all due back by half-four for the international Portkey Robards is setting up. Draco doesn't know that he likes this idea, going to New York to work with the Americans. Durant's tolerable enough, Draco supposes, but he doesn't particularly enjoy working side-by-side with him, although Draco's self-aware enough to realise part of that's his discomfort with the idea that Durant's prick has been in Potter's arse, and not all that long ago at that.

Frankly, the idea that he's having to go back into Durant's bloody hometown with Potter at his side is making Draco nervous. He may be arse over tit for Potter, but Potter's not for him, and Durant had spent two years shagging Potter. Potter'd even moved across the bloody pond for him. He won't even fucking go to Draco's flat any longer, not now that Draco's mother is there. 

Annoyed, Draco slaps a file jacket on the growing pile, then flicks his wand at it, miniaturising them enough to shove the whole lot into his satchel. He ought to insist on staying home. Working with Bertie's team to track down Peasegood. The rest of them can jaunt off to sodding America without him for all he fucking cares. 

Except he doesn't trust Durant with Potter, not in the city they lived in together, so he'll pack his bloody bag and show up, won't he? He slings his satchel over his shoulder and turns just as the incident room door swings open. Bertie's head peers around the door jamb. 

"You're still here," Bertie says, then he stops, taking in Draco's scowl. "Is something wrong, lad?"

Draco tries to school his face a bit better. "No." He doesn't think Bertie believes him.

Bertie steps into the incident room, closing the door behind him. "Everyone else is gone?"

"Yeah." Draco lets his satchel slide off his shoulder. "Congratulations on the promotion, by the way. Deputy Head, good for you."

"Not sure it's a good thing." Bertie scratches the back of his head. "I don't like being out in front of people much, but Robards says he'll handle that part of it, so I reckon I can't complain." He gives Draco a wry smile. "Not as if I don't have a few years left until leave this damned place for Mallorca or some place warmer. Just need my pension to kick in."

"I thought it was a cottage in the Cotswolds." Draco laughs. "Besides, I'm not so certain I can see you sitting on a beach in swim trunks with a fruity drink in your hand."

"Because I damned well wouldn't be," Bertie says. "I'm British, lad. Fifteen minutes in the Spanish sunshine, and I'd be red as those sergeant's bars of yours." He pulls out his handkerchief and coughs into it before folding it up and shoving it back into his pocket. Draco's worried about the old man. He's had a lingering cold for weeks now, and Draco's afraid it might be something more serious. Every time he brings it up, though, Bertie just laughs at him and tells him to stop fretting. "So why the glum face? Your team's being favoured by the Minister himself."

"I don't really want to go?" Draco runs a hand through his hair. "It's ridiculous to send all of us. Maybe I could be more useful here. Helping you."

The look Bertie gives him is sharp and considering. "You've a chance to catch Dolohov himself. Sure you'd want to give that up? After everything the bastard's done?"

Draco looks away. He can't say what he wants to; he knows that. So instead he just huffs and leans against the edge of Althea's desk. The surface is spotless. Draco wonders if she'll ever leave anything on it. He knows the incident room's not like the bullpen where you have your place and everyone knows it. This is more transient. Has to be given the nature of their work. Even Potter's office could shift if Robards decided to turf them out of this room. But still, Blaise has his stash of sugar quills in the drawer of his desk, and Draco keeps his pencils and notepads in his. Even Pansy's thrown a few lipsticks and index cards in hers for whenever she's down here. Althea's desk is bare and empty, inside and out. 

"I want to catch him," Draco says finally. "I just don't know if this is the best way to do it. What if we get there and he's gone again?"

"Americans seem pretty certain he's bunking down there." Bertie walks over, perches on the corner of Pansy's desk. "What's really going on?"

Draco sighs. "Who's going to look after my father's case--"

"Your mum," Bertie says. "And his bloody barrister." At Draco's surprised look, Bertie smiles. "Being Deputy Head has a few perks. Like finding out Achilleus Avery's registered with the Wizengamot as your dad's defence."

"He works fast." Draco rubs his thumb over an ink stain on the top of Althea's desk. "I only signed the contract yesterday."

Bertie shrugs. "Won't be fully official until the Administrative Service approves it in the morning, but he's sent over the paperwork today and it sorted into the filing system. The notification went around when it arrived."

Draco looks over at Bertie. "You're going to tell me any minute I'm being a damned fool."

"Well, you are." Bertie crosses his arms over his chest. "This is a big case, lad. You lot take Dolohov down properly, and the whole fucking Ministry'll fête you like bloody heroes. Especially after this weekend." He looks troubled. "I reckon none of us saw that coming with Arnie."

"You think you'll track him down?" Draco asks. He didn't like Peasegood--frankly, he'd thought the man a complete bastard after the way Blaise had been treated by the Hit Wizards--but he'd never thought him a traitor and a murderer. Not like this, at least.

Bertie doesn't say anything for a moment, and then he sighs. "Eventually. He can't hide long, I think. For all his faults, Arnie loves his wife, and I can't imagine he won't try to contact Belinda soon. She's let us put tracking charms on all their communication devices, so the moment he does, we'll have him." He shakes his head. "Poor goddamned bastard."

"Yeah." Draco wonders what it would be like to love someone and have to run away from them like that. He doesn't think he could do that, not with Potter at least. Draco's too bloody drawn to him, needs to be near him too much. He can't imagine being trapped away from Potter; he doesn't even really want to stay here whilst Potter's in New York. Not if he's honest with himself. He needs to breathe Potter in, to feel the brush of his hand when they stand beside one another. Fuck, but he's an idiot. He knows it. He looks away. 

"Forget Peasegood," Bertie says. "We'll take care of him. You need to focus on Dolohov, yeah? Find the sodding prick."

"And bring him back," Draco says. "I know."

Bertie gives him an even look. "That's not what I was going to say."

Draco turns, surprised. "I'm not going to let him go--"

"You need to be prepared to do whatever's required," Bertie says, his voice blunt. "Whether it's bringing him back or killing him there. He needs to be stopped, lad, and he's a dangerous man. I've gone up against him before. He frightens even me." Bertie clears his throat, pulls out his handkerchief again and coughs into it. Draco thinks he sees a smear of blood against the white cotton before Bertie folds it over. "I've said the same thing to Potter as I'll say to you. Don't think you can duel him easily. Look what he did to young Blaise, and he's a better duellist than you. I've seen your training scores, remember. You flinch too easily, Draco; it's one of your worst weaknesses in a duel. You can't do that. Not with Dolohov You come up against that bastard; you drop him if you need to. Don't be afraid to do so, and don't fucking hesitate. He won't, and I can't bear if you come back in a body bag. You hear me?"

Draco looks into Bertie's face, sees the worry and fear written there. "I won't."

"I've lost count of how many Aurors have told me that." Bertie looks away. His voice is thick. "It happens quicker than you think."

"I survived the Dark Lord," Draco says. "So did Potter."

Bertie snorts. "Lad, the bloody Dark Lord didn't want you dead. You were useful, yeah? If nothing else he could get your dad to fall into line if he threatened you. Dolohov on the other hand? Won't give a fuck now that your father's in custody."

A chill goes over Draco. He knows Bertie's right. None of them are thinking about this part of it. Not really. But one of them could die. More, even. They have to be careful. 

"I know Robards took the restrictions off your wands." Bertie doesn't look at Draco. "We'll both protect you if you have to use an Unforgivable. You know that."

Draco rubs his hand over his face. "Did Robards tell you?"

Bertie shifts on the corner of Pansy's desk. "I asked him flat-out," he says. "When he told me to reconstruct Blaise's wand signature. After he attacked you." He shrugs. "Someone needed to make certain that Cruciatus registered on the Auror rolls, yeah?"

"Oh," Draco says. He hadn't thought of that, never considered who would have made that change for Robards. He ought to have known it would be Bertie. He'd spent a lot of his time on the force tracking magical signatures, after all. It's why he'd snapped up Maxie once Wrightson's team broke apart. 

"So," Bertie says, standing. "I want you to be careful. Please." He puts his hand on Draco's shoulder. "Do whatever you need to do. That comes from the Head Auror as well."

Draco nods. His chest feels tight. He always forgets what it's like to go out into the field until he has to. There's the thrill of the adrenaline racing through him, of course, but there's also the dread about what might happen. What could go wrong. "I'll do my best."

"Good lad." Bertie drops his hand, heads for the door. He pauses, looking back at Draco. "A last word of advice, if I might?"

"Yeah?" Draco glances up at Bertie, his arms crossed over his chest. He's on his back foot at the moment, and he doesn't like that feeling at all. 

"Whatever's going on between you and your SIO," Bertie says, giving him an even, sober look, and Draco's heart stutters in his chest. 

Draco shakes his head, his hair falling against his cheek. "There's nothing--"

"Stop," Bertie says. "I'm not blind, Draco. You'd best end that before you get back. It'll only come back to hurt you in the end. I can bloody well guarantee that." Bertie's face saddens, his voice low and raw, and Draco wonders what's behind that spike of pain. "You might think it fine now, but it never turns out well."

"Robards," Draco manages to get out, and Bertie gives him a faint smile.

"I won't say anything." Bertie rests his hand on the doorknob. "Even if you continued, I wouldn't. But I won't see you hurt, lad, or your career flushed down the fucking loo. Not for anyone, even Potter." He opens the door. "Think about it whilst you're gone. You need to protect yourself, and there's only so much I can do. Even as Deputy Head."

The door shuts behind him; Draco sinks into Althea's chair, his hands shaking. He'd thought they'd been so careful, even though Pansy and Blaise had warned him otherwise. He draws in a raspy breath. 

"Fuck," he whispers, and he presses his trembling fingers against his mouth. 

They have to watch themselves, he realises. He and Potter both. There's too much at stake. 

He never questions why the thought of walking away from Potter is an option. He just knows it's not. 

Draco doesn't think it ever will be.

***

Maxie opens his door the second time Althea raps against it.

"What are you doing here?" he asks, standing back to let her in. She can hear the telly from the hallway; it's the cricket, judging from the sound of it. England's playing South Africa, she thinks. Her dad's cricket-mad, and she tries to keep up with the tables as much as she can. It gives them something to talk about.

As she steps into his flat, she smells the beer he's been drinking all afternoon--Harvey's Pale Ale, if she's any judge. She and Maxie have spent their fair share of time drinking together, and Althea realises with a pang that she knows his habits. It's always Harvey's with cricket and a pint of bitters down the local. 

"I just wanted to ask for your help with something." She glances out the window to the courtyard below. It's quiet here in Stepney Green, at least on the inner flats facing away from the street.

Maxie motions for her to sit, and she takes the worn armchair on the far side of the telly. 

"Can I get you anything?" He's being polite, more than anything, but it's formal--like she's a guest or something. It wounds her more than outright anger would.

"I won't stay long, I promise." Althea sits on the edge of the chair.

The bowler for South Africa takes another wicket, and they both pause to watch the replay.

Maxie sits down, picks up his bottle from the side table and takes a long pull of his ale. "What's the occasion, then?"

Althea sighs. She hates this, hates being so formal and so prickly with one of her best mates from her old team. She knows that colleagues aren't really friends, but she'd felt friendly with Maxie. She at least trusts him enough to ask what she's going to of him.

"We're going to New York tonight, sent by the Minister himself." Althea picks a spot on her trousers. It's so odd not to be on the same team--by all rights, he would be in on the intel.

Maxie focuses his gaze on her face from the telly, putting down his bottle. "Shit. Is it Peasegood?

Althea shakes her head.

"Dolohov?" Maxie leans forward.

She nods. "Special assignment and all, so mum's the word."

Maxie thinks for a moment, then leans back and picks up the dark bottle with the blue label, taking a long swig. Finally, he says, "And you'll be wanting help with your dad, perhaps?"

"Got it in one." Althea keeps her tone light. "I wouldn't ask, you know I wouldn't, but he's been going through a rough patch lately. You know. We talked about it the other night?" She doesn't want to point out which night it was. Neither of them need to relive that. Her stomach still twists at the thought of Wrightson's pale face, at his eyes staring lifelessly at her.

"Yeah," Maxie says. 

Althea shifts on her chair. It's not the comfortable one, the one she used to curl up on when they'd sit here watching England bowl. "The anniversary of Mum's death is approaching. And, well, he likes you." She gestures to the telly. "It's only to maybe talk about cricket at the home every so often, and let me know if I need to come back."

Maxie watches her. "How long are you gone for?"

She shrugs. "Not long. Week or two, I think."

"Of course I'll help." Maxie sighs, picking at the bottle's label before setting it down. "I know we don't agree, but we both lost somebody we care about. And I know you're all your dad's got left."

Althea's gratitude is immense. "I owe you," she says. "And I'll bring you back something hideous from New York."

Wrightson's team was once famous for their practical jokes. Although the gifts were usually of an obscene and inappropriate nature, Althea enjoyed the eagerness with which the team competed to up each other's offerings. Maxie and she had brought back some sex-trade and hashish related items for the chief from an Amsterdam visit, displaying them on his desk right before Gideon Titus came to call. The fallout was epic, but worth it. Wrightson had been apoplectic for days. The memory hurts. She looks away.

Maxie rolls his eyes. "Just make sure you come back safe and sound," he says. "I'll be happy to look in on Mitchell."

"So, an I Love New York gimp mask it is," Althea deadpans, rising up from her seat to go. 

His laughter follows her down the hall. She's glad she can leave with a smile.

***

Harry's in a fucking foul mood. He's trying to shake himself out of it, but he doesn't want to go to fucking New York. Not with Jake. Not with Malfoy. They could send anyone after Dolohov, he thinks. Any Auror team. He and Seven-Four-Alpha could stay in London and help with tracking down Peasegood, at the very least. Not be used for what amounts to a glorified retrieval mission, even if it is against a critical (and very dangerous) target.

"When is Master Harry being home?" Kreacher asks from the library doorway. 

"Fuck if I know," Harry says, slinging his new hold-all over his shoulder. Hermione had found him a new one to replace the one he'd accidentally set aflame back at the end of May. Christ, he can't believe it's been over a month already, that they're two days into July now. It seems like only yesterday. He looks back at Kreacher, who's standing there wringing his hands. Kreacher doesn't care for uncertainty; to be honest, Harry doesn't either. "I'll firecall once I know, all right?"

Kreacher doesn't look pleased, but he nods. "The house is closing up the third floor until the master is being home."

Harry doesn't care. "That's fine." He reaches for the Floo powder. "You'll pop over to Malfoy's flat to check on his mum, yeah?"

"Yes." Kreacher's ears flap a bit happily, Harry thinks. He doesn't know what to think about his house elf being glad to spend time with Malfoy's mother. Still, he's glad of it; he thinks it'll help Malfoy's peace of mind to know someone's looking after her. 

And that's what Harry wants to give him. It's all he can do, really. There's a part of him that wants to walk up to Malfoy, to lay his heart bare, to say _I think I love you madly, wildly, completely, you fucking pointy prat_. And he can't. He won't. It would be the stupidest thing Harry could do right now, sending Malfoy running for the hills because Harry couldn't keep his feelings in check. So he's going to keep his mouth shut and enjoy what he has. Live in the moment. That's what Freddie had told him to do. Not about Malfoy, of course. Fuck if he's going to tell her about him any time soon.

With a flick of his wrist, Harry tosses the silvery powder into the hearth, and a burst of green flame swells up. "If there's an emergency," he says to Kreacher, "you can reach me at the Millenium Hilton in New York. Just make certain to use the wizarding Floo. The last thing I need is to get shouted out by MACUSA for my house elf terrifying some No-Maj."

That makes Kreacher scowl. "I is being careful, sir."

Harry feels a bit guilty and awkward, the way he always does when he leaves Kreacher and the house behind for any length of time. "I'll be back soon," he says, but the promise falls flat, even to his ears. Kreacher's frown just deepens, his scrawny arms crossed sullenly over his chest. If Kreacher had his way, Harry thinks, he'd keep Harry confined to the house, just to make the damned thing happier. 

With a sigh, Harry steps into the Floo, letting it pull him away. A moment later, he staggers out into Malfoy's foyer, nearly tripping over a pair of trainers left on the hearth. A tiny Quodpot player swoops in front of his face, and the surprise of it makes Harry take a step back, his shoulder catching on the corner of the mantelpiece. He swears at the flash of pain.

"Sorry," Malfoy says from the doorway. He has a stack of folded shirts in his hands. "Teddy left that the other day, and every time I catch the damned thing, it gets out again. I think it's looking for him."

Harry bats the Quodpot player away from his face. "Yeah, they were charmed that way precisely so he didn't lose them." He glances over at the shirts in Malfoy's hands. "You're still packing?" He looks down at the watch on his wrist. "We've got fifteen minutes to catch the Portkey. Didn't you get my text that I was coming over to pick you up?" It'd been a last minute decision.

"Yes, ten minutes ago, thanks," Malfoy says a bit defensively. "And I'm almost done. I stayed later than the rest of you." He disappears down the hallway. "Make yourself comfortable."

Harry rolls his eyes but makes his way into the kitchen. It's his favourite part of Malfoy's flat, outside of the bedroom. He likes the clean black-and-whiteness of it, the cosiness of the stools and the counters. Harry drops his holdall on the centre island, then walks over to the refrigerator to pull out a bottle of chilled, still water. To be honest, there's no reason for him to have come over. They could have gone to the Portkey terminal separately, and they probably ought to have just to keep Whitaker's suspicions at bay. Harry's seen the speculative looks she's given them over the past week. She's not an idiot; he expects she'll figure it out soon enough, and when that happens he doesn't know what he'll do. 

Cross that bridge when you get to it, he tells himself.

Still, he'd wanted a few minutes alone with Malfoy before they turned up in New York, and Harry's old life burst in on him once again. He doesn't know how Malfoy's going to take that. If it was awkward for Lotte and her team to assume Harry and Jake were still together, then it'll only be worse when Harry steps back into the MACUSA offices he'd worked in with Jake for three bloody months. Harry doesn't want to think about that. Not right now. Although he knows Martine will hate him. That's a given. Jake's best friend on the force didn't like Harry even when he and Jake were happy.

There's a noise down the hallway, and Harry yells, "Thirteen minutes, Malfoy."

"He's always running late," Narcissa says, stepping into the kitchen. She gives Harry a small smile. "He'll make it, though." She's carrying a bag of her own. 

"Are you travelling?" Harry asks. He feels a bit awkward, the way he always does around Draco's mum. There's something about the way she looks at him, cool and calm and curious, as if she finds him wanting. 

Narcissa stops just inside the doorway. "I'm visiting my sister for a few days," she says. "With Draco gone, Dromeda and I thought it might be a good chance for us to rebuild our relationship a bit." She looks a bit uncertain at that. 

"Andromeda's a good woman," Harry says. "If she said that, she means it."

"I know." Narcissa shifts her bag from one hand to another. "That doesn't necessarily make it less difficult, however."

"I've asked Kreacher to check on you whilst we're gone." Harry leans against the kitchen island, holding the bottle of water and unsure whether or not to drink it. "He's looking forward to it."

"Thank you," Narcissa inclines her head. "That's very kind."

"You and Andromeda are also welcome to use Grimmauld, if you need." The bottle is cool against Harry's hand. He doesn't look at Narcissa directly, although the expression on her face is softer. He doesn't know how to manage the social niceties of offering the mother of the man he's bloody arse over tit for the use of her own cousin's home. The intimacy of it is unexpected. "You could all look for the wine cellar. I bet Teddy'd like the adventure."

"Mother," Malfoy shouts from the bedroom. "Have you seen my black dress robe? I can't bloody find it."

Narcissa sighs. "If you'll excuse me, Inspector Potter?" She leaves her bag on the floor, and is gone down the hallway in a rustle of grey silk. 

Harry shakes his head and smiles. He perches on one of the stools at the island, uncapping his water and taking a long swig of it. He leans his elbows on the counter and looks around. Kreacher'd never let him remodel the Grimmauld kitchen like this, he thinks. Although he might be able to get Malfoy to convince him. The house likes Malfoy best anyway; Harry suspects if Malfoy crooked his little finger, the house would drop its trousers for him. 

But it's probably bloody hypocritical of him to grouse about that, he thinks. It's not as if he doesn't do the same. 

There's an advert flyer for Quality Quidditch in Malfoy's post basket, and Harry pulls it out, intrigued by the broom sale. His is perfectly serviceable still and handles well in pickup Quidditch games in the Burrow's back garden, but if there's a good enough price, he might consider upgrading. 

A folded piece of paper falls out with it. Harry picks it up, intending to shove it back in the post basket, and then he realises what it is. 

Transfer documents. 

Harry's stomach jerks. He can still hear Malfoy and his mum arguing back in the bedroom; he sets his water bottle down on the counter and unfolds the papers, smoothing out the creases. The form's mostly filled out; there are only a few blanks left, down towards the bottom. _Reason for request_ is the largest empty space. 

Malfoy's name is signed at the top, along with the date. _13/06/06._ The day after Malfoy's promotion to sergeant. The day after he showed up at Grimmauld Place, hot and sweaty from his run, wrapping himself around Harry, begging Harry to take him upstairs and to fuck him. 

The papers crumple a bit in Harry's trembling hands. He doesn't know what to think. He feels cold in a way, hurt and angry that Malfoy hadn't felt the need to talk to him about this. Or to tear the papers up if he'd changed his mind. Harry knows he's being irrational. It's not as if Malfoy doesn't have the right to transfer. It'd probably be best for both of them. But Harry can't help the tight ball of anxious misery that's forming in the pit of his stomach. He tries to breathe out, like Freddie'd told him to do, tries to let it go. It just settles deeper. 

He draws in a shallow breath, and a jolt of pain goes through him. Harry wonders if his heart might be cracking, a tiny little fault line that's going to shatter him apart down the road. He looks down at the papers again. 

_13/06/06._ The date's seared into his memory. Harry doesn't know what to do. What to say. He smooths his thumb over the dry ink, suddenly terrified.

Harry hears a thump in the hallway, and he folds the transfer papers up, shoving them in the pocket of his Auror jacket without thinking. 

"I'm ready," Malfoy says, walking into the kitchen. His hold-all's twice the size of Harry's, and Harry can't help but raise his eyebrow. 

"We're not going for six months," Harry points out.

Malfoy takes the water bottle from him and lifts it to his mouth. "I don't know what I'll need. I haven't been to New York since I was six."

"Five," his mother says, coming in to pick up her own bag. "And you cried the entire weekend." She looks over at Harry. "It was dreadful."

"Let's hope you don't do that this time," Harry says, trying to keep his voice light. He can feel the crinkle of the papers in his pocket, and he can't believe what a fool he was to shove them in there, instead of in the post basket. He can't switch them now, and he's not certain he wants to. He needs to think about this, and he can't right now because Malfoy's looking at him with those cool, grey eyes of his and Harry just wants to pull Malfoy up against him and kiss the bastard until he forgets about walking away from Harry like that. 

So he does, much to Malfoy's surprise and Narcissa's amusement. Malfoy's resistant at first, but his lips are soft and warm, and they finally open to Harry's before he pulls back, a furrow between his brows. It's not the best kiss Harry's had from Malfoy, but it's what he needs right now. Feeling Malfoy pressed against him calms Harry, makes the swirling thoughts in his head recede. Malfoy's here. Malfoy's with him. Malfoy's letting Harry kiss him in his kitchen with his mother watching them both.

"What was that for?" Malfoy's cheeks are pink, and he's not looking over at his mother. Narcissa's turned her head, but Harry can see her small smile. He's embarrassed as well, but a bit defiant. It's not as if Narcissa doesn't know he's shagging her son, after all. It was just a bloody kiss, not Harry dropping to his knees to suck Malfoy's prick through his trousers. 

"I felt like it," Harry says. He brushes Malfoy's hair back from his face. He feels viciously possessive. He doesn't want Malfoy to leave. He's not certain he could bear it, even if it'd save both their careers. "I won't get to do that much in New York." His voice is gruffer than he'd like it to be.

Malfoy gives him a faint smile of his own, and it's so very like his mother's that Harry has to look away. Malfoy glances towards the clock on the wall. "We'd best go. Blaise gets jittery the closer to departure time it gets." He steps away from Harry, gives his mother a hug and a kiss on her cheek. "I'll firecall later."

"I'll be fine." Narcissa touches Malfoy's face. "Stop fretting. Dromeda and I will have a brilliant time."

Malfoy still looks worried, but he nods. "I love you," he whispers against his mother's cheek, and then he steps back, glancing over at Harry. "Ready?"

Harry nods and picks up his hold-all, following Malfoy back to the Floo. Malfoy takes a pinch of powder from the silver box on the mantelpiece and tosses it into the hearth embers. Green flames light his face, and Harry can't help himself. He pulls Malfoy against him again, cupping his hand around Malfoy's face as he kisses him once more, his tongue pressing into Malfoy's mouth, sliding against Malfoy's tongue. Malfoy melts against him, opening up to the kiss in a way he hadn't in the kitchen. 

"Potter," Malfoy murmurs against Harry's lips. "We'll be late."

For a moment, Harry thinks about slinging Malfoy over his shoulder, carrying him back into the bedroom and fucking him senseless. The sodding Portkey can go without them. He just wants to bury himself in Malfoy, to feel Malfoy's body tense and clench around his prick. He doesn't know what he'd do without Malfoy. He doesn't want to find out. Ever. 

He needs Malfoy, wants him. 

It terrifies him how much he feels when Malfoy's beside him, but Harry can't turn away from the heat of Malfoy's gaze, the gentleness of Malfoy's touch. 

"Potter," Malfoy says again, and his fingers touch Harry's jaw. 

Slowly, regretfully Harry pulls back. He looks at Malfoy's face, at his sharp cheekbones and his angled jaw, his soft, pink mouth still wet from Harry's kiss. There's so much Harry wants to say to Malfoy, but he can't even think the words again to himself. Not here. Not yet. They feel too raw, too new, those feelings that he's only just named. 

But he knows what they are. 

Harry thinks he's always known. 

He lets his knuckles brush Malfoy's cheek. "You're beautiful," he says, because it's all he can, and Malfoy's eyes soften. 

"You're an idiot," Malfoy says, but he gives Harry that small, secret smile that Harry knows is just for him. No one else. Something harsh and unhappy shifts in him, that pit in his stomach starting to unfurl into a pleasant warmth. Malfoy's his, for now at least, and Harry'll focus on that. Not what might happen. He can't deal with that fear.

"Go on," Harry says, and Malfoy's hand slips over his before Malfoy steps into the Floo, letting the flames whisk him away to the International Portkey terminal. 

"Be careful with him."

Harry looks around; Narcissa's standing in the doorway, watching him. 

"He's more fragile than you might think," Narcissa says. "So please. I ask you as a mother. Be careful with him."

"I couldn't imagine being anything else," Harry says after a moment, and she nods. 

"Thank you, Inspector Potter," she says. Then she smiles. "Harry, I should say. Go, before the Floo closes on you."

Harry steps into the flames. The last thing he sees is Narcissa's face, worried and uncertain before the darkness swirls him away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, you can subscribe to this fic for chapter updates, or you can subscribe for series updates [here on AO3](http://archiveofourown.org/series/661862) or follow me [on tumblr at femmequixotic!](http://femmequixotic.tumblr.com).
> 
> Chapter Four will be posted on Saturday, July 1!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Althea is a Ravenclaw, Draco is a security risk, and everyone at MACUSA assumes Harry and Jake are still together while Jake is definitely not eyeing someone else. Definitely. Not. Blaise.
> 
>  
> 
> **Note: The team are staying in a hotel next to site of the 9/11 attacks, and there is a mention of American characters responding to the attacks.**
> 
>  
> 
> Chapter warnings for physical violence from a side character (a slap across the face), awkward post-breakup vibes, and references to the attacks on the World Trade Center of September 11, 2001.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So so so sorry this is coming up a little late this week. Noeon and I are in New York right now (we've actually visited places we wanted to set things in which has been BRILLIANT), and it's been challenging to finish editing and post while changing hotels today from Manhattan back to Brooklyn. But so worth it for the experience, and, well, New York is always too awesome for words!
> 
> The team worked hard to pull off the shift to the Big Apple--Sassy_cissa did serious research, and Noe checked things for me as quickly as I could write. Many thanks to them both, and to all you readers for your encouragement, your enthusiasm for this little monster of a fic (we're adding 41K this week, JFC), and your terribly kind comments.
> 
> FYI the restaurants are based on real locales. Sophie's Cuban on Fulton St is delectable, and the inspiration for the fictional Mexican restaurant in this chapter, Pocito Piquante, is just opening on Atlantic Ave at 3rd Ave in Brooklyn and well worth a visit if you're local. (Seriously, some of the best Mexican food I've had in years. And the patio is divine.)
> 
> Also, I should say that MACUSA analysts Cooper and Astinghall are shamelessly borrowed from Melissa McCarthy and Miranda Hart's characters in the 2015 movie SPY. Because Noeon is a fucking brilliant genius who makes me laugh like mad and has a keen ear for Melissa McCarthy's voice. <3 <3 <3
> 
> Happy Fourth of July to those celebrating this weekend--amusingly the holiday falls on the exact same day of the week this year as it did for Harry, Draco and the crew in 2006!

Harry hates Portkeying into the MACUSA Chambers Street terminal for diplomats and other official visitors, even though it's miles better than the Newark international terminal. Still, the queue for non-U.S. wand registry is always too sodding long, even with Harry's warrant card helping him bypass half the usual labyrinth of cords before arriving in front of a stone-faced, brusque border mage. Honestly, he doesn't know why MACUSA doesn't open another customs point in the terminal, except he suspects the bloody awful length of time you have to spend just to be allowed into the country's supposed to dissuade people from trying, even for official business. Maybe especially for official business, Harry thinks. Whatever. It doesn't work. The whole process just puts both sides in a vicious mood. 

When Jake heads off towards the queue for MACUSA law enforcement staff, his satchel slung over one shoulder, Harry breathes a sigh of relief. It feels odd to be on American soil again with Jake. The last time Harry'd done this, Jake had been waiting on the other side, with a bottle of wine to welcome Harry home. 

Or to what both of them thought would be their home. Harry'd well buggered that possibility up, now hadn't he?

Malfoy shifts behind him, switching his hold-all from one hand to the other. "How long does this take?" he asks, his irritation evident as he surveys the serpentine line of bored witches and wizards stretching out in front of them, and they've only been queuing for five minutes. "When Blaise and I went to Cuba on holiday, we were on the street in a quarter-hour."

"That was a _great_ holiday." Zabini's leaning against a marble pillar behind him. "Shagged myself out with that couple from Germany."

"Slag," Parkinson says from beside Harry, but there's no venom in it. Whitaker looks scandalised. Harry thinks she'll need to get used to this lot. Christ knows he still hasn't. Not entirely. And he's supposed to be their SIO. Although, to be honest, Harry's not certain one can ever be in charge of Slytherins. 

Harry looks back at Malfoy. "Welcome to New York," he says with a shrug. "You wait as long as they want you to."

"And for Circe's sake, Draco," Parkinson adds, "don't say anything idiotic." She nods to two thick-necked Hit Wizards standing to one side, their arms crossed as they survey the barely moving crowd. "They've no such thing as a sense of humour. Although Newark's worse."

Harry looks at Parkinson in surprise. "Pop across the pond a lot, do you?"

Parkinson wrinkles her nose and tugs at one of the thin straps of her green and white floral dress that keeps sliding off her bare shoulder. Harry's never seen her out of work clothes or her Auror uniform. She looks nice in her fluttery, ankle-length dress with a pair of enormous sunglasses hiding her eyes. "My father's had business partners in the City over the years, so yes. More than you'd imagine, really."

"Pansy was shopping on Fifth Avenue when we were ickle firsties, weren't you, love?" Zabini leans on Parkinson's shoulder, and she pushes him away. 

"Get off me, you twat." Parkinson frowns at Zabini. "You're getting me sweaty."

Whitaker's behind them all, looking around as if she's never seen anything like the terminal with its sweeping art deco arches and domed ceiling of graceful iron scrollwork and shining glass. "I've never been out of Britain," she says, and that makes all of them, Harry included, give her incredulous looks. It takes Whitaker a moment to notice them. "What?" she asks. "I've never needed to."

"Not even for work?" Pansy puts her hand on Whitaker's arm. "No holidays?"

"I've never been on a case that took me outside of England or Wales," Whitaker admits. "And hols for my family usually involved a caravan in the Lake District. Maybe a self-catering cottage if Dad was feeling particularly flush."

The Slytherins just exchange a glance amongst themselves. Harry wonders if they ever realise how easily they shut everyone else out, with just a look or a raised eyebrow. It's them against the world, and Harry's finding it bloody fucking irritating at the moment.

"Well, today you'll get a stamp in your passport," Harry says to Whitaker, ignoring the others. He can't look at Malfoy, not right now. He can still feel the crinkle of Malfoy's transfer papers in his pocket whenever he shifts, and his face heats. Between Malfoy and Jake and bloody being in New York Harry's prickly and unsettled and not entirely certain he's not dancing across a tightrope three storeys high with a bottle of unstable Erumpent fluid in each bloody hand. 

The line moves a half a foot. Harry wants to throw a strop. He doesn't dare. That'd be brilliant, Harry sodding Potter being carted off to a MACUSA holding cell for having a wobbly over being stuck in a customs queue. The _Prophet_ would have a field day. Harry can just imagine the thrill Orla would get over a story like that landing on her desk. Bloody cow.

Harry takes a deep breath and breathes out through his nose, counting to four, then holding his breath again before inhaling. Freddie's right. It helps to calm him down. He has an appointment scheduled with her for later in the week. He wonders if Jake can help him get a Portkey for that or if he should just firecall Freddie and cancel. Harry really doesn't want to do that; he's afraid if he does, this early into Mind Healing, he won't go back. It's hard enough to push himself into Freddie's office as it is.

Malfoy's hand brushes Harry's elbow. "You all right, guv?" he asks, but there's something deeper in his eyes, something worried and a little bit unsure, as if he doesn't think he has the right to ask that question. 

"Yeah," Harry says. "Sorry. I'm not a fan of crowds." He never has been, but it's worse since the end of the war. That first year he hadn't been able to walk down Diagon without a throng of people following him, wanting to shake his hand, take his picture, stare at him as if he were a bloody exhibit at the London Zoo. Harry'd started having panic attacks when he'd go out, especially alone, and it'd taken him months to get to the point where he didn't just Apparate from the flat he was sharing with Ron at the time to the Auror training centre every day, avoiding the general public entirely. He still carries that discomfort with him, even now, that worry that he'll turn the corner and there'll be people waiting. Watching. Worrying him. 

Luxembourg and New York have both given him an escape from that, taking him away from London long enough that he doesn't cause such a stir in England now. He's not unnoticed, but he's not stalked, and Harry thinks he's able to live with the compromise.

"Inspector Potter." 

Harry turns to see a woman only a few years older than him hurrying towards them, her straight black hair pulled up in a shiny ponytail, tawny olive skin set off by a brick red shirt beneath her tailored black suit jacket. He breaks out into a wide smile. "Detective Espinoza," Harry says, then he glances over to his team. "Alma's with the MACUSA Auror force."

Espinoza grips Harry's outstretched hand firmly. "How are you, Harry? Glad to see you back on this side of the Atlantic."

"Wish it could be for better reasons." Harry can sense Malfoy watching him, and he doesn't like the twinge of guilt that goes through him. It's not like Malfoy doesn't know Harry lived here for three months, that he worked with MACUSA, trained with them. He knows some of these people well. Likes them a lot. Harry'd even thought about taking a goddamned position permanently here. Still, Harry feels awkward and flustered with Malfoy's cool grey gaze on him.

"Part of the job, right?" Espinoza shrugs. "Look, no need for your people to stand in this line. We'll need to register your wands but we can take you through the Auror staff entrance. Perks of helping MACUSA out, yeah?"

Harry's not going to refuse that. He nods and ignores the glares they get as they leave the queue, following Espinoza through a side door where a border mage is waiting for them. His examination of their wands and documentation is cursory at best. Harry's never had an easier time of getting into the States, to be honest. 

Jake's already waiting in the immense marble and glass lobby, just beside the inlaid mosaic of the MACUSA phoenix, its lapis lazuli wings stretched out across a gilt circle. He gives Espinoza an easy smile. "Hey, Alms."

Espinoza slides an arm around his waist. "Welcome back, asshole. ¿Qué pasa?" 

"Lo mismo," Jake says, returning her quick hug. "Good to be home again." 

And doesn't that just underscore how awkward this whole damned trip is going to be? New York is Jake's turf. Harry'd liked it here--loved it even, if he's honest--but for the most part, he'd always been Jake's boyfriend to everyone, even the people he'd worked the closest with in the MACUSA Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Now Harry's coming in as an outsider with his own team of Aurors and a new partner, if what he and Malfoy are to each other can be called that. Fuckbuddy might be better, and that thought stings a bit. Harry wants so much more from Malfoy than just a cracking good shag, and he's certain he's not going to get it. He glances between Jake's relaxed stance and Malfoy's tense face. Fuck, but this is already weird; Harry's feeling on his back foot and he hasn't even been in the States for an hour. 

Goddamn Antonin Dolohov to fucking hell.

Espinoza steps back, then checks her watch. "So I know it's not even noon here, but it's got to be what? Five p.m-ish for you guys? You must be starving. I thought maybe we could drop your stuff at your hotel, pick up some sandwiches or something to go, then head over to the Woolworth for a bit before we let you adjust to the time change. Graves is still in the Hamptons for the Fourth--"

"His wife's throwing that A-lister beach party?" Jake asks. He pulls a pair of sunglasses from his pocket and sets them on top of his head. The bottoms disappear into his rumpled, dark blond curls, and Harry catches the sideways glance from both Malfoy and Zabini--the former uncomfortably annoyed, the latter appreciative. Harry keeps his face schooled. Jake's always been ridiculously attractive in that slow, lazy way of his.

"And we weren't invited. Shocking." Espinoza's voice is dry. "Yeah. Tommy boy's going to sneak away tomorrow morning to come in and meet with all of you, but Mel won't let him come back to the City today. He has to watch the kids while she finishes prepping. So, Harry, you and Jake will have a quick sit-down with the intel analysts and the rest of you guys can come with me to get your credentials. Sound good?" 

Harry just shrugs. "We'll do whatever."

"I'll meet you at the office," Jake says. "I want to pop over to my apartment. See how dead the plants are."

"Forgot your watering charms again?" Espinoza laughs.

"More that I'm not certain Mrs. Kim remembered to renew them," Jake says. Harry liked Jake's landlady, a sturdy, well-muscled older witch with silver hair who'd lived in the flat above them and had been a reporter for the _New York Ghost_ before she retired six years back. She'd adored Jake and was fascinated with Harry, having covered Voldemort's rise back in the 90s for the paper. She'd had them up for japchae and short ribs every Friday night. "Been gone a little too long."

Espinoza nods, then glances at Harry. "You going with?"

Harry stills, and he feels as if everyone's watching him. Which they are. Except for Malfoy, who's studiously looking away, his shoulders stiff and tight. "No," Harry says. "I'll be staying in the hotel with my team." He shifts his hold-all to his other hand. "Jake and I aren't…" He trails off, uncertain and embarrassed. He can't look over at Malfoy. He wants to, needs to make certain Malfoy's all right, but he knows if he does, it'll just make everything worse for all of them.

"We broke up, Alms," Jake says, his eyes fixed on Harry's face, almost defiant. Harry can still see the hurt in his expression. "So yeah, Harry won't be in Brooklyn."

Espinoza looks flabbergasted, as does Whitaker, and Harry realises Whitaker'd never heard he and Jake had dated. Jesus, this is fucked up. And this is why you shouldn't get involved with someone you work with, he thinks. If he were smart, he'd have learnt from his mistake by now. 

Harry's evidently an enormous idiot. Not a scrap of Ravenclaw in him at all. 

"Oh," Espinoza says finally. "Well."

"It's as awkward for us as it is for you," Parkinson says, calmly, pushing her sunglasses up onto her head. "Probably more, to be honest, all things considered." She gives Jake a sweet smile; his lips twitch to one side. Malfoy just glares at her.

"Everything's fine, Alma," Harry says. "I'm obviously more than happy to stay at the hotel." He is, really, but there's a part of him that wants to go back to Jake's cosy garden flat on Dean Street in Boerum Hill, to sit down in Mrs Kim's front room with a cup of tea, looking out over the tree-lined street. Harry doesn't regret breaking up with Jake. It was the best thing for both of them, and he's completely mad for Malfoy now, even if he's wondering what those damned transfer papers he found in Malfoy's kitchen might mean. But still, Harry feels as if he's crossing over himself here, coming back to a past he's in no way ready to face. It's only been two months and some change since Harry'd left New York, only six weeks since he and Jake broke up, less than twenty-four hours since he'd realised he's in bloody love with Malfoy. This all feels too soon, too quick, too _everything._

Harry pushes his rising panic back down, refusing to let anyone here see it. He can do this, he tells himself. This is just work, that's all, and Harry's fucking good at his job.

Espinoza rubs the back of her neck. "Yeah," she says, but she's still a bit surprised, Harry thinks. "Anyway." She reaches into the bag at her side and pulls out a file jacket, tugging as it gets stuck. "This is for you." She hands it to Harry; he flips through it. "Basic reports on what we have so far on Dolohov. Jake, you can log into the servers and get it. I think Graves wants you both on point for this one."

Fucking brilliant, Harry thinks. Nothing like having to lead a combined team with your ex who half-hates you."

"Great," Jake says. He sounds as thrilled as Harry feels. He drops his sunglasses down onto the bridge of his nose, hiding his eyes. "So I'll meet you at MACUSA in about an hour?" At Espinoza's nod, he hefts his satchel up. "See you there," he says and then he's headed off to the Apparition point for Brooklyn. Harry watches him go; when he looks back at his team, Malfoy's studying him, an unhappy expression on his face. Harry gives Malfoy a small smile, but Malfoy only looks away. That's not good, Harry thinks, and he wants to walk over to Malfoy, to wrap his arms around him, to rest his head on Malfoy's shoulder, to tell Malfoy he has nothing to worry about. Not when it comes to Jake.

But he can't. Not here in the middle of the MACUSA Portkey terminal with Parkinson and Zabini both scowling at him as if he's about to break Malfoy's heart--probably vice versa, Harry thinks--whilst Whitaker's eyeing him speculatively and Espinoza's radiating awkward embarrassment. 

"Hotel?" Harry asks. "It's just around the corner, yeah?"

Espinoza nods and they start walking through the lobby. Harry falls into step beside Malfoy. "You good?" he murmurs, and Malfoy gives him a scathing glare. 

"Ducky," Malfoy says as Zabini and Parkinson move around them, drawing Whitaker up to the front with Espinoza and distracting them both with questions. Harry knows the Slytherins are giving them some space, and he's grateful for it. 

"Come on." Harry looks over at Malfoy. He tries to keep his voice low and his posture relaxed for Espinoza's benefit, and anyone else who might be watching. "I know this isn't easy for you. Half an hour ago I was kissing you in your foyer, and now here..." He trails off, uncertain as to what to say. Everything's going to be different. Stranger. New York's an entirely new world for Malfoy, Harry realises, and he's not certain how Malfoy's going to feel about that.

Malfoy's silent as they step through the tall glass doors and into the hot cement squall of New York, so different from cool quiet of the Portkey terminal. The sun's bright and hot, the air humid and close, the Muggle traffic thick and loud, with taxi horns blaring and trucks rumbling past. Harry loves the feel of New York. He's been in a lot of cities around the world, but New York has different feel to him, its magic rawer and rougher than older cities, but welcoming nonetheless. Everyone's a stranger in New York, this city built by people arriving from other places. Harry likes that about it. He thinks, in time, Malfoy might as well.

"I'm fine," Malfoy says after a moment. "Stop worrying about me." Harry doesn't think he can, but he just nods. He's starting to know Malfoy's moods, and this one means he doesn't want to talk. They walk down the wide steps together, catching up to the rest of the team. Parkinson's watching them behind her wide sunglasses, and she reaches out to take Malfoy's hand. 

The walk to the hotel is quick; it's only a short way down Church Street, and Harry likes watching Malfoy and Whitaker look up at the skyscrapers around them. Manhattan's a lot to take in at first. Harry remembers how overwhelmed he'd been when Jake'd brought him to MACUSA the first time. London has skyscrapers and tall buildings, but nothing like this, these canyons of steel and glass stretching high up above your head, making you dizzy when you try to see their tops. The streets smell like summer, hot tarry asphalt and trash and a certain something that Harry can only describe as New York, spicy and warm and so smoky-metallic acrid it catches in the roof of your mouth. A few yellow cabs blare past, heat from their engines spilling across the pavement, and Harry's glad they're seeing it on a Sunday when there aren't the workday crowds hurrying into the buildings, pushing and pressing down the streets in a hive of activity. Even with just the tourists it's overwhelming. 

He can see the top of the Woolworth Building as they pass the high, columned portico of St. Peter's. MACUSA shares its space, ironically enough, with a few Muggle businesses, mostly run by Squibs from the magical families of New York. Still, it gives a reason for the building, with its gothic arches and pointed rooftop, not to be hidden from the city skyline.

And then, right after the Federal Office Building with its Muggle Post offices, the landscape gets eerie. On the left, there's a fenced-in churchyard that looks like it would be more properly at home in a small English village than surrounded by tall buildings and subway signs. The headstones are dark and the grass a bright green in the July sun. And on the right there's nothing, an empty space torn out of the fabric of the city.

Harry hears Parkinson draw in a ragged breath beside him. They all stop for a moment, looking at the buildings beyond the enormous, negative space in the mass of tall buildings around them. There is a profound silence, even in the midday sun with signs of life all around. It's impossible to ignore the deep, haunting energy of the space and the aura of sadness and desolation and death. Even though Harry has passed by the site before, and even though there are new buildings and other signs of future planning all around, and Muggle construction vehicles everywhere, it's still an unnatural sign of a horrific event.

"I haven't been down here since I was little," Parkinson says, and her face is stricken. "I mean, I'd heard, and we knew people who lost family members, but it's so different to see the reality of it. It's so huge."

Espinoza isn't looking at the site directly. "It looks a lot better now than it did," she observes, her gaze drifting over to the St Paul's side. She's a New Yorker born and bred, and Harry knows she was one of the young Aurors on the scene that day. Same as Jake. Doing everything they could to help because it was their fucking city too. Her brother's one of the Hit Wizards now embedded in with a platoon in the U.S. Army, having married a No-Maj in 2002. She wraps her arms around herself, her face inscrutable. 

Whitaker is quiet. "It seems so ordinary," she says, "but I suppose it's not at all."

Espinoza shrugs. "It was just a normal day, too. When it happened." She looks over at the empty pits, the deep, muddy flats behind construction fencing. "I remember I was getting my coffee at Ned's, just down the block from the Woolworth. It's not there any more. They've put in a Starbucks downstairs instead." She runs a hand over her face. "There was a noise, and we all just thought it was your usual New York. Some kind of construction. An accident. Something. And then I looked up, and there was smoke coming off the building…" She trails off, looking up at the sky, at something only she can see. "It was supposed to be a regular Tuesday. I had an interrogation with a suspect lined up. I was supposed to go to the Shore that weekend for one last beach party with my friends. And then…" She gestures towards the empty space. "This."

Zabini takes a deep breath, visibly shaken. "The worst things happen on normal days."

"Half of MACUSA stayed at the Woolworth, putting up shields around the building," Espinoza says. "Others of us came running up here. Jake and me--well. Our captain came with us, and our whole department. We did everything we could to help. Apparated people off floors as quickly as we could. Tried to catch some of the jumpers. But it was just too much. Too many people." There's an almost haunted look on her face.

Harry touches her shoulder, as gently as he can, before he lets his hand drop back to his side. There's no way to take those memories away, or even to make them better. Of all people, he knows that.

"We did everything we could," Espinoza says again, barely a murmur, "but it wasn't enough." Her voice catches, and she looks away, exhaling slowly. "Afterwards, the Aurors helped go through the rubble. We took shifts, slept on the pews in St Paul's Chapel over there until they were certain there weren't any survivors." She nods towards the small brown stone church with the ancient graves spread out beneath a grove of green trees. "Almost five years, man. And then things go back to normal. But it's always different if you remember what happened in between."

They stand still for a moment longer, all of them quiet, remembering their own normal days, their own moments of tragedy. Harry thinks of the people he lost during the Battle of Hogwarts, of the long rows of bodies that had lain in the Hogwarts Great Hall afterwards. He can't imagine if it had been thousands. His heart aches enough as it is. 

"Quia pulvis eris et in pulverem revertis," Malfoy murmurs. The back of his hand brushes against Harry's.

Espinoza gives him a surprised look. "Not often someone your age quotes the Latin Mass at me," she says. 

"Not often someone your age recognises the Latin Mass," Malfoy counters, and he smiles faintly. "My grandmother was fond of Ash Wednesday services. She was a Rosier, and none of them ever bought into the use of the vernacular."

"Mine either." Espinoza fist-bumps him, and Harry eyes them, bemused, not entirely certain what just happened between the two, but Espinoza falls into step beside Malfoy, their heads bent together as they compare grandmother stories.

The others follow them towards the the Millenium Hilton across the street, tall and bright, a long rectangle of dark glass walls stretching up towards the bright blue sky. The lobby's cool inside, with its walls of burnished wood and black marble floors and the golden glow of lights hanging from the high ceiling.

Harry starts towards the reception desk, but Zabini catches his arm. "Let me, guv," he says. "I've loads of experience getting good rooms in a hotel."

"He means flirting with whoever's behind the desk," Parkinson says, pushing her sunglasses back up to her head. "But he is rather bloody good at it, as much as I hate to see his ego swell."

Zabini raises an eyebrow at her. "I could take that statement so many other places," he says, "but I'm going to be an adult."

"For once," Malfoy says. He smiles at Zabini, bright and amused and fond, and Harry's heart catches. He wants Malfoy to turn that smile on him again. 

Espinoza glances over at Harry as Zabini makes his way to check them in. "I was thinking of putting an order in at Sophie's Cuban," she says. "Get some sandwiches, maybe a few plates of shrimp in garlic to share? We can sort out who gets what when the delivery arrives?"

"Sounds good to me," Harry says. "I want a pernil with a twist. And perhaps chicken and pork sandwiches for the rest of our group?" He doesn't want to overdo the spices. The first time he'd eaten at Sophie's he'd thought his mouth was going to burn off from the green sauce alone. Jake had laughed at him for days, then introduced him to jambalaya with Tabasco.

"Got it." Espinoza pulls out her mobile, then grimaces. "Better get something for Jake. What's his favourite again?"

Harry answers without thinking. "A pollo a la plancha with rice and beans and a beef empanada on the side. Oh, and three of the green sauces, or he'll complain that it's not spicy enough." He only realises what he's done when Malfoy and Parkinson both look over at him, their mouths tight. Whitaker's looking between Harry and them, a thoughtful expression on her face. Harry rubs at the side of his neck, feeling his skin heat up. Fuck if he's going to be embarrassed about knowing his ex's order. Sophie's is just down the street from MACUSA. The whole bloody office had ordered from there all the time. 

Espinoza steps away to order the food, and the other three stand uncomfortably together until Zabini strolls back over, key cards in his hand. 

"Wizarding Floo's on the tenth floor behind a door marked boiler room," Zabini says. "An Alohomora will get you in." He hands Malfoy a key card, then Harry. "The guv and Draco are on the forty-ninth floor, since they're our senior officers. The rest of us plebs are only on the thirty-second."

"Oi, I'm a sergeant too," Whitaker says, but she sounds more amused than annoyed. 

Zabini shrugs. "You're new to the team. That means you're stuck with me and Pans, sorry." He gives her a bright grin. "We're that much closer to the bar, if that makes it better."

"I'm fairly certain I can survive," Whitaker says dryly. Still, she gives Harry another odd look before glancing away. 

Espinoza walks back over. "Food'll be there in twenty minutes. Luis's bringing it himself so he won't get stopped by the security wizards in the lobby. Want to drop your bags and come back down?" She sits in one of the brown leather chairs in the corner. "I'll wait for you."

The bank of lifts for the upper floors is on their right. The team crowds into one, Harry at the back with Malfoy pressed against his side, neither of them speaking as the doors close, whisking them upwards so quickly Harry's ears nearly pop. The others are chattering around them, Parkinson informing Whitaker about Century 21 across the street. 

"Brilliant shopping, if you don't give a shit about a luxury experience," she says. "I bought a pair of Manolos for--" She stops, thinking. "Blaise, how many Galleons equals a hundred dollars?"

"About fourteen," Zabini says, sounding bored. "Unless the exchange rate's gone up drastically."

"What the hell are Manolos?" Whitaker asks, and Parkinson looks horrified.

"Really?" Parkinson sighs. "Althea, darling, we're going to have to get you more hip. Even Theo's sister wears Manolos, and their whole stupid family is still into Muggle-baiting as sport."

Malfoy leans his shoulders against the burnished wood wall of the lift. "How very outré of them."

"Don't mock me," Parkinson says, just as the lift shudders to a stop for the thirty-second floor, the doors sliding open with a soft ding. She looks back at Malfoy as she steps out into the hall. "Be downstairs in five minutes." Her gaze flicks over to Harry. "I'm timing you both."

"Cow," Malfoy says, and the doors slide shut again. Harry and he are left alone, their faces reflected back at them in the polished gold doors. 

They're both silent for a moment as the lift starts to rise again. Malfoy's very carefully not looking at Harry. 

"You're miffed at me," Harry says, studying Malfoy's reflection.

Malfoy sighs. "I'm not." His fingers grip the strap of his satchel tighter. Harry knows he's lying. 

"Jesus," Harry says. "You know I lived here for a bit--"

"With Durant, yes." Malfoy's face is schooled. Calm. Harry wants him to shout, to yell, to show some sort of emotion. Anything. Not that quiet carefulness Malfoy exhibits when he's furious. "And you left London to move in with him after the first time we fucked and came back right before--" Malfoy looks away, his mouth tight. "You know what, I don't care." 

He does. Harry knows he does because Harry'd bloody well care if their places were reversed. 

"Bollocks," Harry says, and he turns towards Malfoy, stepping closer, crowding into Malfoy's space, ignoring the sign posted above the rows of lift buttons that says _Elevator under periodic surveillance_. He needs to feel Malfoy, needs to touch him, needs to reassure himself that they're okay. His hand settles against Malfoy's hip. "You know I chose you, yeah?"

The lift jolts to a stop, and the doors slide open. Malfoy's still not looking at Harry. 

"We'll see," Malfoy says, and he steps out into the corridor, his key card in his hand. He walks away from Harry without looking back. 

Harry watches him go, his stomach sinking. "Fuck," he murmurs, catching the lift door before it slides closed on him. He looks down at his key card. 4901. 

With a sigh, he walks out, turning the corner towards his room, away from the bank of lifts, away from the long hallway Malfoy's striding down, tall and ramrod straight, never once glancing back at Harry. 

Harry slides his keycard in the door and opens it, his gaze still fixed on Malfoy. He wants to run after Malfoy; he knows it won't help.

He steps into his room, letting the door fall closed behind him with a solid thunk, wondering if he'll regret that choice.

***

Jake slouches back into the office at quarter past one. Technically, he's a bit later than he promised, but for a Sunday he's early enough. It's odd to be back in MACUSA, he thinks as he pushes the elevator button for the fourteenth floor. He hadn't realized how used to London he'd become these past weeks, but now, New York feels strange.

When he'd made it home to Brooklyn, his apartment smelled disused and stifling. Mrs Kim had taken care of his plants--they were fine, if a tad less green and flourishing than when he'd left. He's glad he doesn't have a cat or even a Pygmy Puff. Fuck knows what he'd come home to with one of them. Complete shunning, he supposes. He didn't have time to do much more than throw his bags on the bed, crack open a beer, and take a quick shower. Still, Jake threw open the windows to air it out before closing it back up to leave for the Woolworth Building.

He's like a ghost, haunting his own workplace. It doesn't help, Jake thinks as he exits into the central hallway wide of a deserted floor of the Woolworth Building, its golden wooden parquet a bit dusty, that most everyone else is off for the holiday. Everything looks emptier, shabbier. He wonders what Martine is up to this weekend; he needs to tell her he's back. She still has a set of his keys, and he seems to remember agreeing to her using his apartment for a Fourth of July party. He didn't see any gin or beer stored in the fridge or the bathtub, so maybe it's been moved to someone else's place.

Jake pushes open the glass and brass doors of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, going past the impressively Art Deco carved mahogany reception desk and into one of the smaller hallways that make up the warren of Auror and Unspeakable offices. The MACUSA DMLE spans the New York Auror force, the national Department of Magical Security, the Agency for Protecting Wizarding Secrecy, the Federal Bureau of Covert Vigilance--which Jake's officially assigned to--and the Major Investigation Department, which pulls Aurors and Unspeakables together with the Hit Wizards for national task forces and inter-agency criminal investigations. Frankly, Jake thinks the British system is more efficient, but they've a smaller country to police, to be honest. MACUSA gets even more complicated when representatives from local branches of the DMLE get involved. Jake tries not to be on those task forces, if he can help it. He prefers being a MACUSA liaison to the ICW than working with his fellow countrymen. Too damned much red tape and pissing contests over jurisdiction.

He turns another corner, towards Tom Graves' office. They'll likely have put Harry that way, if the analysts are involved, and sure enough, he catches the faint sound of voices from one of the side offices. He can hear Harry, the measured, clipped British cadence of his intonation, as well as a loud, penetrating voice and a more quiet, halting and melodic one, also vaguely British. A bit posher than Harry's though.

And doesn't that beat all, Jake thinks as he approaches the only office with activity, to be back here with Harry and now Malfoy as well on a matter of international wizarding security. He doesn't blame Malfoy, not really--the poor bastard had looked miserable at the Portkey terminal. Still, selfishly, Jake's a little glad Malfoy's suffering, especially if it makes Harry suffer in turn. He hasn't quite forgiven Harry yet for what he did, and he really doesn't know how he's going to lead an investigation with him without coming to blows. There's still a part of him that misses Harry, that wants to see Harry sprawled across his couch with his bare feet on the arm. Jake'd yelled at him for that all three months they'd lived together. Now he wonders if that'd been the straw that broke the camel's back, if maybe he'd kept his temper Harry might be back in Jake's apartment, cooking up an awful curry for him. They'd have gone for a run this morning along the Promenade, then come home and Jake would have had Harry pressed into the arm of the sofa before Harry could make it to the shower, both of them rutting against each other, desperate to get off. Sex had never been something he and Harry had been bad at, that's for damn certain, even if they had a fucking hell of a time actually talking. Or Harry had at least. Jesus, but Jake's never been with someone less able to communicate than Harry.

Really, Jake had known what he was getting himself into when he and Harry started going out. Harry was obviously difficult and broken, and Jake'd known that from their first drink together in Luxembourg. But Jake's always had a soft heart for the injured ones, hasn't he? It's why he got interested in neuromagical work anyway. Still, Jake has to admit that he misses Harry more than he did before, now that he's back home. He can feel Harry in his apartment, see him moving through the rooms, hear his laughter echoing down the hall. It's worse now than it was those first two weeks after Harry'd packed up, moved himself back to London. Jake had hoped back then he might have a chance to get Harry back. Now he knows that'll happen the day hell or Louisiana freezes over. Whichever fucking comes first.

Jake takes another breath against the wave of hurt, tries to centre himself, gives up, and goes into the room.

"Well, speak of the devil," Susan Cooper says. Her fierce demeanor settles him down immediately. She may look like someone's homophobic aunt (her words, not his, after a long and memorable night of drinking Scorpion Bowls at Lucky Cheng's and trading insults), but she doesn't take any bullshit, and Jake respects this about her. Harry's sitting in the corner, arms crossed, watching the women at the conference table. "Oh wait, the devil was busy, so he sent you, Durant."

"Hi, Jake. You're looking lovely as usual." Nancy Artingstall greets him breezily, her once faint British accent a bit stronger now that Harry's in the same room, then she stammers. "I mean, sorry, well rested. Right."

"Cooper. Artingstall." Jake grins. He likes them both, rather a lot. Nancy's penchant for saying exactly what she's thinking has gotten her into trouble at times, but she's good natured enough to get back out of it. Usually. Susan just bludgeons a hole through the opposition with the pure force of her will. They're both fucking good analysts, though. Smart as whips, and Nancy's got a No-Maj MPhil from Cambridge as well in theoretical and applied linguistics.

"I was just telling your friend, Mr Limey-I'm-A-Big-Deal, over here that, whatever the hell he thinks, we can't give him all of the intel until Graves gets back tomorrow. And besides, his entire team needs to be registered before we can do anything with them." Susan grimaces. "So yeah, that's going well, as you can see." She gestures in Harry's direction. Harry looks sullenly furious, the way he can when he's not getting something he wants.

"This is a matter of acute national wizarding security," Harry huffs. He's basically throwing a power sulk, with everything but a miniature storm cloud over his head. Jake looks around, but he doesn't see anything smoking or on fire. Not yet at least. Maybe that Mind Healer he'd recommended is doing some good. Harry's strop isn't that serious, Jake thinks as he sits down as far away from Harry as he can.

"It's a federal holiday, pal." Susan eyes Harry, and Jake thinks he's going to enjoy this battle of wills. His money's on Susan, to be honest. He's seen her beat even Graves into submission by sheer force of will. "You should be glad Graves is coming in tomorrow to see you. And if you want to take it up with the man's wife, we'll notify your next of kin. If you're nice, we'll help repatriate your remains too."

Susan's not really exaggerating, Jake thinks. Mel Graves has made more than one Auror shit their trousers when she's turned those sharp green eyes on them. There's a reason why she's President Quahog's chief of staff. 

"I'm an orphan," Harry snaps, playing the sympathy card. Susan looks completely unaffected.

Jake holds up a hand. There's only so much he'll let Harry spin around on this one. Susan'll eat him alive, and they all know it. "Okay, time out. Did Espinoza take the team over to be registered?"

"Yes," Nancy says. "And we had to call in Merle and Fabiana to get them entered into our system. You can imagine how thrilled they both were. Fabi was on her way to Boston to visit her mother." She turns to address Harry, "I really am sorry, Mr Potter, but we're running on skeleton staff until Thursday."

Harry nods, albeit grudgingly and with a scowl. And oh, Jake wants to lay him over his knee and tan his fucking hide for that pissy attitude of his. But as satisfying as it might be, it'd just lead to things Jake would rather not recall. Like the fact that Harry looks goddamned gorgeous getting fucked with his ass spanked red and raw or that one slap of Jake's hand against Harry's skin used to cause his perfect, thick prick to fatten up against Jake's thigh. Yeah, Jake's not thinking about that right now. Fucking hell, he's not.

"Well, what can you tell us, ladies?" Jake settles back into his chair, willing his body to behave. He refuses to look over at Harry, who's worrying his bottom lip between his teeth, his glasses slid down nearly to the tip of his nose.

"If I may continue?" Susan says, in an acid aside to Harry, who waves a hand. 

"Be my guest," Harry mutters.

"Oh, I love that movie," Nancy says with enthusiasm, visibly trying to ease the tension in the room but floundering. "But it's 'Be Our Guest', isn't it?" She hums a few bars hopefully to an equally stone-faced reception by Susan and Harry. Jake wants to laugh. Really he does. They're peas in a pod, those two, in certain ways.

But then Jake's forced to imagine Harry as something out of _Beauty and the Beast_ \--he's seen it too damned many times thanks to Martine's goddaughter Silvie--and really, he now doesn't know whether he wants to laugh or cry. Harry'd be the fucking teacup, Jake thinks. He's broken enough. Jake doesn't want to think of Harry as the Beast. He's not casting Harry as a romantic hero. Not any goddamned longer.

"Right," Susan says, calling Jake and everyone else back to the situation at hand. If Nancy's starting to hum, things have gone too far. It's a MACUSA rule of thumb. "We know that Dolohov was seen by a reliable source."

"The identity of which you are unable to share," Harry intones dully from the corner.

"Do you want my fucking badge?" Susan stands up, hefting her plump, purple jersey-covered belly onto the desk, holding up her MACUSA ID from her belt. "Because it's right here, and I'd have to turn it in if I told you anything more."

Harry looks away first. "Sorry."

"That's more like it." Susan huffs, sitting back down. "So we're pretty confident our source identified that evil fucker, and we know his activities connect to other cases currently under investigation by MACUSA personnel."

"Which you also can't tell me about." Harry almost rolls his eyes. "National security, etcetera, etcetera."

Jake has really had enough. "Jesus, Harry, believe it or not, it's not all about you."

"Whoa," Susan says, holding up her hands. "I don't need a lovers' quarrel in here."

"We're not lovers!" Harry says loudly at the same time as Jake says, "We broke up, Sus. Jesus."

"Fucking Christ," Jake adds, and Harry looks away again. "On a cracker."

"And all the blessed saints and angels," Susan adds automatically, giving them both a curious frown.

"How unfortunate," Nancy says into the silence, glancing back and forth between Jake and Harry. "One did always enjoy imagining, didn't one?" She sighs, her mouth turning down. "Pity."

"Jesus, Nancy," Susan says, giving her an exasperated look. "Keep it together."

Nancy flushes. "Well, nevermind that. Which of you is in charge of the combined team?" She smiles brightly.

"I am." Jake and Harry both say simultaneously, then scowl at the other.

Susan rolls her eyes. "Well, that's healthy. And as much as I'd like to watch you two fight for it, possibly with jello or mud involved, we don't have time for shenanigans."

Harry mouths, "Jello?" whilst Jake says, "Mud?"

"And maybe alligators." Susan eyes Jake. "You look strong. And I like you better because you have better manners than Boy Wonder over there." She flaps her hand at Harry. "Whatever. I'm going to tell you, Durant, that Dolohov is connected to the Brighton Beach local guys, and Graves is going to bring all of the materials with him tomorrow so you can peruse them to your heart's content. But you didn't hear that from me, so keep your mouth shut if you know what's good for you." Her eyes narrow at Jake. "I know _all_ your dirty laundry. Especially what's on your Blockbuster card. No one should watch that many shitty Richard Curtis movies, asshole."

"Tell that to Martine." Jake'll never admit he's the one who rents them every weekend. Martine's more into _Die Hard_ and Jean-Claude van Damme, but he thinks she'll keep his secret. If he bribes her with a bottle of good wine. He smiles his daddy's fortunate son smile, secretly gloating at Harry's displeasure. He thinks he smells a bit of smoke now, drifting up from the corner of Harry's file folder, and he couldn't care less. "Thank you kindly, Ms Cooper. Perhaps I could have a copy of that paper you have?"

Susan beams at him. "For you, Durant. Maybe. But don't share it with that shithead." She scowls at Harry.

"Scout's honour," Jake holds up a hand. But he never was a scout, so he figures he doesn't have to worry. Harry looks like he's going to explode, and, frankly, Jake hasn't had this much fun in days. He leans back in his chair, feeling a bit satisfied.

On second thought, he thinks, it's fucking great to be home.

***

Pansy slides into the tall white chair at the lobby bar, nudging Althea's elbow. "Buy me a dirty martini?" It's been a long afternoon, filled with paperwork and Americans and Draco shooting bitter looks between Potter and Durant, and, frankly, Pansy thinks she fucking deserves a drink. She kicks off her shoes and rests her bare heels against the high footrest on the bar, flexing her aching toes against the dark brown wood.

"You heard the lady," Althea says to the barman, lifting her own half-empty gin and tonic. He grins and reaches for a glass. Althea looks over at Pansy. "Drinking at seven in the evening, Pansy Parkinson, well I never."

"It's midnight back home," Pansy says, resting her elbows on the gleaming wooden bartop. "I shouldn't because I'll fall asleep too early, and tomorrow will be absolute shit, but who gives a fuck, really." She eyes Althea. "As, I'm assuming, you're doing."

Althea turns her glass in her hand, staring down into it. The lime sloshes up against the side. "Yeah."

Pansy just watches her for a long moment. "Worried about your dad?" she asks finally.

"A bit." Althea lifts her drink and drains it, setting the ice-filled glass down. "Amongst other things." Her white shirt's untucked from her trousers and open a few buttons at the top. Pansy gets a glimpse of Althea's bra, light and lacy and pale pink, which surprises her. She'd have assumed Althea was more the serviceable cotton type, and wouldn't Millie have Pansy's bollocks for stereotyping there? Pansy feels a bit ashamed of herself. It doesn't stop her from glancing down at Althea's tits again, though. They're small--almost non-existent--and Pansy thinks Althea would look bloody smashing in some of the new clothes coming off the Paris runways this season, the ones Pansy'd look like a high-class escort in, not that she's ever minded that comparison. Sometimes it's delightful to put your whole body on display, she's found. Fuck anyone who says otherwise.

Pansy takes her martini from the barman. "Wrightson then."

Althea nods. "I still feel responsible."

"Don't." Pansy lifts her drink and takes a sip. It's strong, just the way she likes it, with a good splash of olive brine. "Wrightson was a fucking wanker, and you did the right thing."

"I suppose." Althea doesn't look persuaded, and Pansy feels for her. She knows what it's like to feel like you're the one expected to take care of everyone on your team, to clean up after them, to protect them. It's bloody exhausting all the fucking time, and no one would ever expect a man to do that. It wouldn't be part of _his_ bloody job to caretake, would it?

Pansy presses her toes against the cylindrical metal footrest. It's cool against her skin. "You think Maxie or any of the others are agonising like you? Telling themselves it's their fault?"

"None of the others brought him in," Althea points out.

"True." Pansy lifts her martini again. "But not a single damn one of the others was smart enough to figure out what Wrightson was doing."

Althea gives her a small smile. "Neither was I until--"

"Stop it," Pansy says, turning towards Althea. Their knees bump together. "You know, I always thought you were such a swaggering bitch, and I liked that about you, even when you narked me off going after Draco the way you did. I can respect a woman with an attitude. This isn't like you, Althea. You ought to let it go."

"Don't know if I can," Althea says quietly, picking up her glass and swirling the ice cubes around. She sucks one into her mouth before putting her glass back down. Pansy motions to the barman to pour another gin and tonic. "I reckon I was a bit too idealistic."

"This job beats it out of all of us eventually." Pansy rests her chin on her fist. "Even those of us who never thought we had an idealistic bone in our bodies."

Althea looks over at her. "I think you're too harsh on yourself, Pansy."

"Sometimes I'm not harsh enough." Pansy thinks about Tony, about the way he'd fit against her body on Friday night. He's one of her biggest mistakes, one she seems determined to make again and again. Still when she thinks about his tongue on her nipples, his prick inside of her, his hands spreading her legs wider--Circe. She feels her face heat. She stirs a finger around the inside of her martini, pulling it out and sucking at the tip. Althea just watches her, a thoughtful look on her face. 

"Anyway," Pansy says. "The point being that you've nothing to flagellate yourself over. Wrightson may have been a decent guv, but he was a shit person. I'd rather have a shit guv who's a decent person."

The barman places the fresh gin and tonic in front of Althea, whisking away her empty glass. Althea runs a thumb up along the side. "Like Potter."

Pansy considers. She likes Potter, as much as she'd deny it to his face. She's had far worse SIOs in her years in the force, whatever the fucker thinks he's doing with Draco. He's stupid about that, but everyone has to have a blind spot, Pansy thinks. Potter can't seem to help that Draco's his. "Potter's not a completely shit guv," she says after a moment. "He does his best, and he can't help that he has a shit team. We're a little broken, all of us. Maybe that's why we work well." She smiles at that, thinking about the arguments they've had over the past few weeks. "I mean, mostly well."

Althea doesn't say anything for a long moment. She picks up her drink and takes a sip. "So Potter and Durant. Used to fuck?" The word sounds dirty and wrong from Althea, and Pansy thinks she likes it.

"Yeah." Pansy leans back in her chair and shrugs. "Back in Luxembourg, I gather. Potter doesn't really talk about it that much. Neither does Durant."

"How'd you find out?" Althea looks over at her. 

Pansy swirls her finger in her martini again. "Long story. You'd have to ask Potter about most of it." She doesn't want to give Draco up. If he won't protect himself, he needs her and Blaise to do it for him. "It's odd and a little awkward, I suppose, but Durant's not a horrible bloke. Blaise rather likes him."

"Zabini likes everyone," Althea says, but Pansy shakes her head. That's a misconception the other Aurors have about Blaise, one Blaise himself isn't going to push back against. 

"Blaise likes people to think he likes them." Pansy pops one of her olives into her mouth, sucking the vermouth from it. "It suits his purposes. But he genuinely likes Durant, and I trust his impressions." Sometimes. She's not entirely certain this time, and she worries that Blaise's infatuation with Jake Durant comes just from the man being in his head during a vulnerable time. Still, she's waiting. Observing. And if Durant hurts Blaise in any way, Pansy'll have his sodding bollocks as a trophy. 

Althea nods, as if considering. She takes another drink. "So the guv and Durant fucked," she says again as she sets her glass down, and Pansy decides she rather likes Althea in her cups. Althea'd only had one beer the night they'd gone out a team. Pansy thinks maybe she's worried about becoming like her father, caught in a dry home, and Pansy understands, she really does, but there are times when a good stiff drink can help lubricate some emotions loose. She thinks Althea desperately needs that tonight. "That's kind of hot." She looks over at Pansy. "How long?"

"For two years or something." Pansy can't remember how long Draco'd said. "They just broke up."

"Got that." Althea's cheeks are a bit flushed. She looks pretty, Pansy thinks, her mouth softer, her face more relaxed. She wonders how hard it must be to be Althea Whitaker, to carry as much anger and pain tightly wrapped up inside of you. Pansy knows she has family issues, but she thinks Althea's must be so very much worse, having her mother ripped away from her and her father turn to drink instead of his daughter. Althea must be so fucking lonely. 

"And the guv and Malfoy?" Althea looks over at Pansy. "How long have the two of them been shagging?"

Pansy stills, her fingertips barely against her glass. "I've no bloody idea what you mean." She laughs, and it sounds harsh and fake even to her ears. "Draco and Potter? They hate each other. Always have. You know that. _Everyone_ knows that." She looks ahead of her, taking in the glass shelves of liquor bottles behind the bar, each lit with a soft golden light. 

Althea snorts. "Come on, Parkinson. I'm a sergeant in the British Auror force, not an oblivious idiot. I've seen them come into the office together in the mornings. I've watched them interact with each other. I've seen the looks, and the whispers, and the way they bend their heads together when they think none of us are watching. And I'm queer to boot. I know my people. I know the signs of hooking up. I've seen it in clubs and with friends and my own relationships, for fuck's sake. I'm not your typical unobservant witch on the street."

"No," Pansy says quietly. "I suppose you're not." She hasn't really considered that maybe Althea might have recognised herself in Potter and Draco. She thinks about denying their relationship, but what good would that do? Althea's on the team, and she'll know all their secrets soon anyway. That's what happens when you work this closely together. You can't help it. She sighs. "A few weeks, really. The guv dumped Jake for Draco."

"Oh." Althea leans back in her chair, looking a bit gobsmacked. "Awkward."

Pansy laughs. "More than a bit." She finishes off her martini. "If you use this against Draco, I'll slaughter you." She looks over at Althea, her face grim. "I'm serious."

"I expect you are." Althea runs a long, tapered finger along the rim of her glass. "I wouldn't. It's none of my business what he does. Besides, I'm not going to rat out another gay couple. Not in our force. I know what it's like to be harassed for whom you fuck."

That surprises Pansy. "I thought you'd disapprove."

"Why?" Althea looks over at her. "Because they're queer or because I'm a bitch? Because if you think it's the first, honey, there's something you and I need to talk about."

Pansy laughs. "I think I might have figured that out already." She eyes Althea. "I was thinking more along the lines of you being a class A bitch to Draco." 

"I'm trying to hang up that particular crown." Althea rests her elbows on the bar. "Besides, I've seen it happen before. We work in a strange job with strange hours and life-threatening situations. Bonds form. Whether or not they should." She glances back over at Pansy. "It almost never goes well."

Pansy nods. "I agree. But…" She sighs, chewing on her bottom lip. "For Draco's sake, I hope we're both wrong."

They're silent for a moment, then Althea says, "Christ, the guv's a real slag, isn't he? Durant and now Malfoy? He works with both of them, and no one's ever called him on shagging around on the job?" She picks up her drink. "Fuck, if that were me, Robards would have had me in his office in a heartbeat, shouting me down. How the hell does Potter get away with it?"

"Being Harry bloody Potter, Saviour of the Wizarding World and Chosen One For Us All, doesn't hurt," Pansy says dryly. "I know for a fact that keeps half the things he does out of the _Prophet. _"__

__Althea laughs and shakes her head a little. "I reckon you're right. Although it must be nice."_ _

__Pansy shrugs. "What would we know about it, anyway?" She raises her glass in a toast. "To anonymity!"_ _

__"To anonymity," Althea echoes, clinking her glass against Pansy and looking her in the eyes whilst she takes a healthy swallow. And isn't her face fetching, Pansy thinks, with that slight flush from her drink and the sly knowing smile she turns Pansy's direction._ _

__Fuck casework. And sleep, Pansy tells herself. And surely this counts as group bonding time with Althea. That's work too._ _

__She's pretty sure she'll kick herself tomorrow, but tonight, she could care less. They're in New York and she has a pleasant drinking companion and a delicious sense of being far away from her problems._ _

__London be damned, she thinks. They're in a new world now, bright and pretty and sparkling with possibility._ _

__And far, far away from most of Pansy's worries._ _

__She lifts her glass again and smiles._ _

____

***

Blaise is sprawled across the white puffiness of Draco's bed, looking out past the dusty construction pits below towards the wide river and upwards to the city spread out beneath them. It's not quite dusk yet, and the traffic's moving quickly through the near empty streets of the Financial District, red lights gleaming in the canyons of tall buildings. It'll be a bit different tomorrow, Blaise knows, but for tonight he's enjoying the quiet of the city on a holiday weekend.

He rolls onto his side and looks at Draco. "I don't know why you're still here when you could be down the hall shagging the guv."

Draco folds a pair of pyjama bottoms and puts them in the dresser drawer, closing it before he turns around. "Maybe I don't want to."

"Bollocks on that." Blaise flops onto his back, his hands folded across his chest. The bed's brilliantly comfortable; he hopes his is as well. He bounces his hips against the mattress, feeling them spring back up pleasantly. "You know there's no better sex than that of the wanton hotel variety. You can pretend to be the rentboy Potter picked up behind City Hall--"

"Shut up, Blaise." Draco gives him a disgusted look. "It's not like that."

Blaise eyes him. "Oh, don't tell me you two _make love_." He sneers out the last two words. "That's so boringly pedestrian." Blaise considers. "But very Potter, I suppose. Très Gryffindor, très..." He yawns in an exaggerated fashion.

For a moment he thinks Draco's going to throw his hold-all at him, and he hopes he does. It'll do Draco some good to get angry. Circe knows he's been seething since they've arrived.

But all Draco says is, "Get off my bed." Blaise chooses to ignore him. He's got nothing better to do than to go sprawl in his own room, flipping through the telly. Or bother Pans in the bar, which is where she'd flounced off to, after declaring that Draco was officially on her tits. He really has been spectacularly annoying this evening, even by Malfoy standards.

Blaise yawns again. He hates having to readjust to time zones. His body is screaming at him to go to sleep, but he knows if he gives in too early, he's just going to wake up at three in the morning and then what good will that do?

"You should go to him," Blaise says. "Be all romantic or whatever it is you two are. Spend some time before you fall asleep doing the horizontal mambo." The look Draco shoots him is venomous, and Blaise just smiles. "You've got to stop blaming him for living here with Jake. You don't see me being all terribly jealous and posturing over that."

"And you're not shagging Durant," Draco points out. "So there's no reason for you to give a damn."

Blaise thinks that's not quite true, but there's no sense in bringing that up to Draco. Not when he's in a mood like this. Besides, Blaise _is_ jealous. He's just not going to admit it. Not to himself, not to Draco, not to anyone. It's all better left unsaid. Ignored, even. He stretches his hands up over his head. "I just want you to be happy."

Draco snorts and hangs up a pair of trousers. "You mean you want you to be happy because you're worried that Potter and Durant might get back together."

At that Blaise stills. He hadn't thought about that actually. "They wouldn't." He sits up, cross-legged and frowning. "They loathe each other. You saw the way they were today." Honestly, there'd been one point during their afternoon meeting with Espinoza that Blaise hadn't entirely been certain Jake wasn't going to hex the guv, then storm out of the room. Although, to be fair, Potter had been trying to throw a bit of British weight around. Not that Blaise blames him. You have to be a bit dominant with the Yanks sometimes or they'll walk all over you. "They're over-over."

"It's only been six weeks," Draco says. He jerks a work shirt out of his hold-all and shakes it out before pulling out another hanger. "And now they're back again in the same city they lived in and that can't be helping anything they might be feeling--" Draco's voice catches, and Blaise just looks at him, understanding dawning. 

"Oh, Draco," he says gently. "You're worried."

"I'm not." Draco scowls at him. "I'm just being bloody pragmatic. Six weeks isn't that long to be split up. It took me six months to get over Nicholas."

"Longer," Blaise says without thinking, and Draco just looks away, his jaw working. "Draco--"

"You're just proving my point," Draco says, and his voice sounds a bit scratchy and uncertain. "I'm just a rebound for Potter, and that's fine. It really is."

Blaise wants to tell him to stop being an enormous bloody wanker. It's obvious the guv wants Draco, and not just for sex, if Blaise is any judge of the matter. Potter's practically throwing himself at Draco every time they turn around like a little Crup desperate for attention. It's so bloody obvious that Blaise isn't sure how half the bloody force isn't gossiping about it yet, except they're all sodding idiots. Then again, Draco is as well, it seems, and that annoys Blaise because really, he expects better from a Malfoy.

He unfolds himself and crawls off the bed, walking over to put his hands on Draco's shoulders. "Look," Blaise says calmly. "If you don't march yourself down to Potter's room and take out whatever this is--" He waves his hand up and down Draco's tense, frustrated body. "--that you're working on, I will Accio his sorry arse down here for you, and you really don't want to make me do that, Draco. The last time I tried it, Greg went through two walls before he got stuck."

That makes Draco smile, if faintly. "Thank Circe he was pissed out of his mind at the time."

"I still think we should have Obliviated him," Blaise says, frowning. "He never would have known."

"And we'd have lost a great drinking story," Draco says. He's twisting a shirt between his hands, wrinkling it terribly. 

Blaise can't argue with that. "You need to shag him." He takes the shirt from Draco, doing what he can to salvage the fine cotton. 

"Not Greg." Draco pulls the shirt back and slides it onto a hanger, settling it in the closet. The cuffs are nearly pleated, but Blaise thinks the wrinkles will fall out before Draco wears it. If not a good starching charm should take care of the rest.

"Don't be an arsehole." Blaise walks over to Draco's hold-all and rummages in it, ignoring Draco's protests. He finds a phial of lube and pulls it out, raising an eyebrow as he turns back towards Draco. "So you _were_ planning--"

"It doesn't have to be used on Potter," Draco says, his voice defiant. Blaise just looks at him, and Draco's shoulders slump. "I'm too irritated to fuck him at the moment." 

Blaise raises an eyebrow. "No one is that annoyed with anyone ever, you giant sodding twat."

Draco's sulking now, and it's not a pretty look on him. "You don't know--"

"Oh, don't even start with me." Blaise slaps the phial of lube into Draco's hand "Walk down that hall right now, and fuck that man. Get this dithering out of your system because I swear to God, Draco, if you cock this up for both of us, and Potter has some ridiculously Gryffindor sentimental moment with his ex that keeps me from having a goddamned shag with that blond Adonis, I will fuck you over for the next sodding twenty years, do I make myself clear?"

That earns Blaise a slow, careful blink from Draco. "Are the Veela hormones stronger right now?" Draco asks, and it's a genuine question, Blaise can tell. He knows when Draco's taking the piss about his non-human heritage.

Blaise breathes out. "Yes. And I don't know why. It's never been this bad; it's like having an itch that won't go away." He ought to ask his mother, but he's afraid she'll start prying, and Merlin knows he's spent the past decade trying to keep her out of his romantic affairs. It'd been bad enough when she'd thought he and Draco might make a couple, and that's a laughable idea. Two weeks into a relationship with Draco and Blaise would want to hold Draco's head under the bath water. He doesn't think that's a healthy start to anything. 

Draco actually looks sympathetic. "Am I making it worse for you?"

"I don't know." Blaise sits on the edge of the bed and considers. He looks up at Draco. "All the sexual tension lately between you and the guv probably isn't helping." He pulls Draco down onto his lap and wraps his arms around him, burying his face in his best friend's neck. "Just go," he says against Draco's shirt. "It'll be better for all of us, yeah?"

For a long moment, Draco's silent, then he says, "I'm terrified."

Blaise pulls back and looks at him. He knows a little of what Draco's feeling, he thinks. "You're not doing yourself any favours. You know you're going to end up in there again. So go in and take charge. Don't let him push you over. You're a fucking Malfoy, for Circe's sake. Act like one."

"Arsehole," Draco says, but there's a tinge of affection in his voice. And a bit of determination, Blaise thinks. Draco stands up, the phial of lube still clutched in his hand. "This is idiotic."

"Go forth and be an idiot," Blaise says. "We're twenty-six. We're allowed to be stupid. Another four years, and we have to be adults."

Draco laughs. "You've got to stop being so terrified of turning thirty."

"It's a traumatic turning point." Blaise smiles up at him. "Look, I'm going down to my room. Do whatever you want, but I think you're a fool if you don't throw Potter down on the bed and shag him raw. Or yourself raw. Follow your bliss, my friend."

He stands and walks over to the door. 

"Blaise." 

Blaise looks back, the door half-open. Draco looks young, almost frightened. 

"Tell me I'm not making a complete fool of myself," Draco says, his voice quiet. His eyes are shadowed in the lamplight. "With Potter, I mean."

Blaise just looks at him for a moment, then says, "It's the last thing you're doing, Draco. You're not afraid to want him, even if it's mad." He swallows, his throat tight. "I wish I had half the bollocks you do right now."

Draco bites his lip, then nods. "Thanks."

He's still watching, his face thoughtful, when Blaise steps into the hallway and closes the door behind him.

Merlin, Blaise thinks, his own heart a bit disgruntled and aching, but he needs a bloody stiff drink. 

He heads towards the lifts. Might as well join Pans in the bar.

***

It takes Draco half an hour to summon up the courage to walk down the hall.

He doesn't think Blaise is wrong. Not entirely. He wants Potter like he's never wanted anyone else before. But he feels unsettled here in New York, in a way that he can't quite explain to Blaise. It's almost as if his skin doesn't fit properly, as if he's unmoored from himself, as if the anonymity of these streets with their towering buildings is a bit too much for him to take. 

And then there's Durant. And Potter. And all the small bits and pieces of their life together here that are starting to needle Draco and fray his nerves. It's not that he hadn't known Durant and Potter had been a couple. Obviously he had; he'd bloody well seen a memory of Durant shagging Potter senseless, but that'd just been sex. Not a relationship, not those moments of intimacy that bind two people together in inexplicable ways. Draco'd been able to push that memory away when they were in Britain, to ignore it. Here, it's not as easy, and he's seeing more of Potter's life with Durant. The way Potter was able to rattle the man's takeaway order off, without even thinking, was just one little fragment. The assumption by Espinoza and a few of the other MACUSA staff that Potter was going back to Brooklyn tonight. All those small things, and they haven't been in the city half a day yet. What's it going to be like the longer they stay, the more Draco has to come to terms with Potter's life here in New York?

Draco knows he's being ridiculous, knows his jealousy is out of place. All Potter's done today is show how irritated he is with Durant, and Draco hasn't been unaware of the looks Potter's been giving him, with that worried, uncertain furrow between his eyebrows. 

Circe. Draco doesn't know why he's like this sometimes. 

But it stings, too, that all of this is what Potter came to after fucking Draco in the Auror training centre showers. He knew that night that he was moving across the Atlantic, knew he was going to try to start a life with another man. He didn't even come to the Leaky, didn't bother telling Draco he wasn't going to show. He let Draco go, let Draco wait, let Draco think he might have a goddamned _chance._

And all the while he knew Jake Durant was going to meet him on the other side of that fucking Portkey journey. Draco wasn't anything to him but a good fuck. A pretty shag. A chance to have one last fucking fling before settling down.

Draco thinks maybe it's ridiculous of him to still be angry about that, after these past few weeks, but he is. In a way. He feels dirty, filthy even, and not in a good way. Maybe he should have felt that way more in Britain, and Draco supposes he did at first, when he and Potter first started their affair, but now, standing in this hotel hallway, stopped beside the bank of lifts, and staring out the window that looks out across the river towards Brooklyn, three bridges stretching across the water in his line of sight, Draco truly believes himself to be the whore Potter had called him all those weeks ago. 

It's not a good feeling right now.

He'd liked it when Potter had called him that before, though. It'd turned him on because Draco'd never been the truly slaggish one of his set. He likes a good fuck, always has, but even his one-night stands have been staggered. He wasn't the sort like Pans or Blaise to go out clubbing on nightly basis just for the pure hedonistic joy of it. Draco's always been far more interested in settling down; that's how he'd fallen in with Nicholas, after all. Nicholas had promised him a real relationship, someone to come home to at night. It'd been all smoke and twisted mirrors, of course, but Draco had clung to that fantasy as long as he could and at great cost to himself. He supposes his mother taught him something about love and sacrifice, possibly to his detriment, but he compromised too much with Nicholas, lost too much of himself. Became someone he hated, and it'd taken him so fucking long to even start to heal himself from that emotional disaster.

And then Potter'd come along, and one touch from him had made Draco's blood burn with a want Draco'd never thought he'd feel that strongly. Draco _had_ been a whore for Potter, and he'd liked that feeling, liked being shagged raw across Potter's bed, liked having Potter lose himself so completely in Draco, the way Draco had in Nicholas, and what does that make Draco, really? Is he any better? Does he care if he isn't?

Draco hadn't even really given a damn, if he's honest, when he'd realised Potter'd been fucking him whilst still with Durant. That's not like him. He knows that. But he hadn't cared because it'd been Potter touching him, holding him, bringing him to shuddering ecstasy in ways Draco's fantasised about since Hogwarts. Part of him still doesn't care. The worst of it had been when Durant had pushed that image into Draco's head of Durant moving inside Potter's body, Potter writhing beneath him on the bed Draco'd now knows so well. Sometimes Draco wakes up to that image, sometimes it pops into his head when he's least expecting it, and it makes him incredibly turned on and incredibly furious. Not because he'd broken a relationship. Draco doesn't really think things can be ended like that if they're not already broken. But more because he wants to pretend that Durant and Potter have never been anything more than work partners, that Potter didn't walk away from Draco those months ago for someone else.

But he can't forget it. No matter how hard he tries, and standing here in New York, it's all crashing back on him, reopening a wound that Draco had thought he'd bandaged over.

Frankly, Draco doesn't know if he'll ever forgive Durant for sharing that memory with him. It was cruel, and yet Draco understands why he did it, understands the anger that Durant must still feel every time he looks Draco's way. If Draco were a better man, he'd step back, walk away from Potter. 

He's not, and he won't. 

Because it's Potter, and Potter makes Draco feel things he doesn't even understand.

Outside, a ferry glides across the river, leaving a white wake in its way. Draco leans his head against the wall, the nubby wallpaper cool against his skin, his arms crossed against his chest, the phial of lube still in his hand. He looks down at the streets below, at the bridges stretching across the river. Dusk is starting to fall, a pale rosy-grey tinge slipping over the sky. Draco's tired. It's past midnight in London, and his body feels it. 

Blaise is probably right, whether or not he's being self-serving with his advice. Draco should go to Potter. He can still feel Potter's hands on his skin from last night, the shuddering twist of his body against Potter's as Potter'd slid the butt plug deep inside Draco. Draco's never abandoned himself to anyone like that; Potter can make him do and beg for things that Draco never thought possible. 

And Draco doesn't know if he's ready for that vulnerability tonight. 

He steps away from the hall window, looking towards Potter's door, only a few feet away. His fingers tighten on the phial he's still holding. It'd be so easy to walk over, to knock on the door, to have Potter open it and pull him inside. To hand him the lube. To ask him to take him, there and then. 

To make him feel something. Anything. Whatever Potter might want.

Draco wonders if Potter's waiting for him to do that. 

He wants to. Badly. And yet. 

Slowly, Draco turns and walks back to his own room. He lets himself in and throws the phial of lube back in his hold-all. It clatters in the near-empty bag. 

Draco drops down onto the bed, drawing in a deep, shuddering breath. He stares out the window. The buildings across this river are in New Jersey, Blaise had told him. They're smaller, but still densely packed. Draco wonders how anyone can stand this city, how they can keep from being lost within it. It's almost too much.

And he misses London already. At least in London, he knew his place.

Draco flicks his wand at the lights and whispers _Nox_. He toes off his shoes and stretches across the bed in his clothes, watching the boats as they make their way along the river. Blaise would tell him he's a fool. Blaise would be right.

Eventually, fitfully, he falls asleep.

And he dreams.

***

Thomas Graves is a man who clearly is not used to being kept waiting, Draco thinks as they're ushered into his office at precisely twenty past nine on Monday morning. Graves launches in right away, even before they're entirely through the door. Draco's still sluggish from the time difference, even if he had slept rather well, and the energetic American's pace is frankly a bit overwhelming.

"Potter, good to see you again." Graves frowns as he scrawls his name across the bottom of a sheaf of papers, one after another, quick and almost illegible from what Draco can see as he moves closer to Graves' enormous cherry desk obviously built to befit the man's status as the Director of Magical Security for wizarding America. Graves snaps his fingers at a witch who steps forward, and he hands over the parchments he's just signed. "Send those out to California pronto."

As Draco's feet sink into the thick plush pile of the burgundy carpet, he wonders what the history is between Graves and Potter, and then he reminds himself that he shouldn't really poke around too much when it comes to Potter's place at MACUSA. What Draco's seen of Potter's time in New York has already created enough jealousy. He's been avoiding talking directly to Potter this morning--he's sure if he lets his guard down, he'll get even more hurt. So he's trying to stay professional, impartial, and even put some distance between them.

"Good to see you as well, sir," Potter says, and rubs the back of his neck. And isn't that interesting, Draco thinks. He's not often seen Potter seem diffident. It's almost as if Potter's conceding that Graves has a right to be angry, or at least that Graves puts him on the back foot. Again, Draco wonders what the reasons for that might be, although he's sure he doesn't want the answers. Best not to ask, he reminds himself. Best not to let that can of worms open. Draco still feels fragile and raw from last night, and he's only just managed to pull himself together enough to face whatever's bloody well going to happen today. But it's in Draco's nature to be curious about unspoken things, even if it's often to his own detriment--as his mother has chided him about since he was small.

"And this is your team, I presume?" Graves' eyes are a blue so pale they're almost colourless His shoulders are broad beneath his suit jacket, and his thick, dark hair's only beginning to show the first few strands of silver hair at his temples.

Draco straightens his posture under the clinical expectations of the Director of Magical Security's gaze. He's appropriately chilly and authoritative for that title, Draco thinks. Graves' tropical wool suit is bespoke--Italian style rather than English--and his tie is Hermès' wizarding line. Two seasons back, but still nice. And it broadcasts expensive. Draco thinks Proudfoot could take a few sartorial lessons from this man.

"Yes, sir," Potter says, and his voice is as deferential as Draco's ever heard. It's bloody disconcerting. "Sergeant Althea Whitaker, Sergeant Draco Malfoy, Constable Pansy Parkinson, and Constable Blaise Zabini."

Graves inspects them all in turn, his gaze dispassionate. "Pleased to meet you." He waves them into the seats that, with a quick snap of his wand, appear in front of his desk. "Durant's late." He scowls down at his watch. 

Technically, they're early, but Draco notes Potter doesn't point this out. Draco looks around the office. Tall windows look out onto another building across the street. They're too low to catch the New York skyline, but the light coming into the windows is fairly bright and sunny, today at least. The walls are panelled wood, stained dark and lined with glass-fronted bookcases opposite the windows. There's a Floo behind them, with an intricately carved stone mantelpiece filled with framed commendations and photographs of Graves with various important wizards and witches, Potter among them because of course Graves would have that, wouldn't he? An oil painting hangs above them all, of a group of twelve wizards and witches dressed in the garb of the seventeenth century colonies, if Draco's any judge. They look grim and determined, and, to be honest, they scare the bloody fuck out of Draco, staring out into the room the way they do.

Graves catches Draco's look. "The original twelve Aurors," he says. "The one on the left is Gondolphus Graves. My ancestor, obviously. We hold that group in great respect in the States. Those men and women took on a difficult job after the trials in Salem." 

Draco doesn't know what to say to that. "How interesting," is all that comes to mind, and from the look on Graves' face, Draco doesn't think that was what he expected. Blaise nudges him with his foot and frowns.

 _Stop being so Hastings Norman,_ Blaise mouths at him.

The door to Graves' office swings open again, and Durant walks in, obviously not giving a fuck that he's the last one to arrive. "Hey, Tom," he says easily, and another chair pops into place on Potter's other side, because of course Draco's life can't get any bloody more annoying. Durant drops into it with the barest of nods Potter's way. He doesn't bother to apologise for his tardiness. Potter scowls at him anyway, which makes Draco feel a bit better. Not much. But a bit.

"I was just meeting Potter's team, and we were about to begin the briefing." Graves purses his thin lips, looking around at all of them. "Obviously what I'm about to say is not only covered under the Official Magical Secrets Act but will also get you some if not all of you fucking killed and rather soon at that, if you use the information improperly." He raises an eyebrow. "Not necessarily by MACUSA's hand either."

Despite himself, Draco leans forward. It's an impressive warning, and he has a strong sense that Graves knows whereof he speaks. Draco's terribly curious to know what the fuss is about. 

"Sergeant Malfoy in particular might want to pay attention," Graves says, glancing Draco's way. "Given that we've verified the British Ministry's suspicions that Lucius Malfoy has been one of several British wizards financing certain…" He hesitates. "Homegrown organisations that are fomenting dissent towards the American way of life."

Draco sits back with a sigh. His father's in the thick of the buggery, as usual. Draco doesn't know what the fuck else he expected. "Such as?" Draco asks, and then adds, "sir."

"I'll get to that in a moment." Graves rests his elbows on his desk. It ruins the lines of his jacket, but that fault's made up for the air of gravitas his posture gives him. "I wanted to let you know that Antonin Dolohov was sighted by an informant in the Brighton Beach wizarding enclave on Friday." Graves pauses, letting the information sink in. Potter just nods, as if he's been expecting this. "The informant is known to MACUSA as a credible source, and Muggle security yielded a possible match. Hence my sending McGillicudy and Grimsditch to speak with Shacklebolt yesterday."

"You're certain of the identification?" Pansy asks. "It's only that we've had other sightings of Dolohov on the Continent that haven't panned out."

Graves eyes her. "We've also had a positive thirty-point magiometric signature identification, indicating there's a 99.2 percent chance this individual is Antonin Dolohov." He gives Pansy a tight smile. "I'm certain, Constable Parkinson, you'll understand the .8 percent chance of a false positive."

"That's impressive," Pansy says, and Draco has to agree. Magiometric signature's a new scanning and identification process New York've been working on, Draco knows, that takes more than just the usual wand signature into account. In fact, it's supposed to be wand independent and almost impossible to forge. Draco's sure Pansy will be wanting to know security algorithms and how to create her own version of it in the Ministry lab; he fully expects her to track someone who knows the details down before they go home. How she can understand the specifics of the process is beyond Draco's understanding. He just wants to know that it bloody works and how he can read the data to find actual people.

"The Brighton Beach location is significant due to its ties to Russian and other international groups," Graves continues. "It's not shocking that Dolohov would find himself there. What we find more interesting is the proximity of the Dolohov sighting to what we believe may be a magical or, more likely, a magical and No-Maj hybrid arms warehouse. You'll understand our concerns, of course." Graves draws in a deep breath. "The Dolohov family has been known to finance some of their more ideological projects with monies from potions and artefact sales to other magical governments. Items that might be considered dangerous, if I make myself clear."

Potter's dead silent, as are the rest of the team. This is much more than Draco was expecting, and the hush in the room indicates he's not the only one taking in the new level to the case and trying to process it. 

And his father's involved in this somehow. Circe, Draco thinks. What the goddamned fuck has Lucius stumbled into this time?

Graves drums his fingers against his desk. "We're planning specific measures in the area over the next two days--"

"Over the holiday?" Durant asks, sounding a bit taken aback.

"We'd like the element of surprise, so yes," Graves says. "Which means I'm afraid we need to ask your combined team to hold off on any investigative fieldwork until after the Fourth." Graves sighs. "I can't disclose the nature of the operations, but I assure you we are working as quickly and discreetly as possible and a number of other shareholders are involved."

"So the Unspeakables are running something," Potter counters, obviously forgetting his deference for a moment. "And you possibly have another agent in the field or a foreign intelligence asset? Sir." There's a distinct hesitation between the question and the honorific.

Graves' face is impassive. "I can neither confirm or deny, but I applaud your intelligence reasoning."

Which is a yes, Draco thinks. Or as close to one as they're going to get.

"As soon as we're clear, Inspector Potter," Graves says, "we would like to have your team move in with Unspeakable Durant and his field-trained officers from the Aurors to start gathering the local intel on the suspect's movements and looking for tracks. It's always possible, of course, that we'll apprehend Dolohov in our action, at which point we would be more than happy to hand him into your custody."

And they could go bloody home, Draco thinks. The conquering heroes, bringing back the fucking Death Eater for the glory of God and country. He relaxes a little. He can survive a few days in New York, he thinks. 

"Request permission to attach Martine Boucher and Alma Espinoza to my team," Durant says from Potter's other side.

Graves favours Durant with a twist of his mouth that might actually be a smile. "Already done."

Durant leans back in his chair. "Thank you."

Potter's fiddling with the seam of his trousers and frowning, and Draco knows this usually spells trouble. He's pretty sure Potter's not happy with the people Durant wants working with them, although he has to know that this is Durant's stomping ground. Potter also looks like he has some sort of concern to air. 

"Sir, with all due respect," Potter says, "we were sent out by the British Minister for Magic himself on this matter, and I worry that, if we hold off until after your manoeuvre, it's going to be too late to find anything when we are allowed to investigate the sighting." Potter's voice is unbearably earnest, but he's not wrong, as much as Draco hates to admit it. He wouldn't mind having the Americans track Dolohov down and deliver him trussed up like a Christmas pressie. "We really need to try to apprehend Dolohov, if at all possible. And it's so much harder to follow a cold trail."

Graves nods, steepling his fingers against his chin. "Shacklebolt himself approved the larger matter, Potter. There's a fragile joint cooperation, and I can't say more than that, but I assure you that British interests are fully and explicitly represented."

Potter sits back in his chair, somewhat mollified by all appearances. "All right. I can't argue against Kingsley."

Draco supposes it's all the assurance they're going to get. He doesn't like it either, but he's happy enough to let Potter call the shots on this as their guv. After all, Potter's the one who'll get called out if there's any second guessing back in London. Draco's just glad all this is above his pay grade. He's not certain he wants to go for an Inspector's bars down the road.

Pansy's hand shoots up, to the surprise of everyone in the room. 

"Yes, Miss Parkinson?" Graves looks intrigued.

"Can I have access to the magiometric scanning data?" Pansy's like a beagle with a scent, and Draco's never bloody loved her more. He knows bloody well she's been sitting there the whole time scheming about how to get her crimson-tipped fingers on the scans. "It might help us to connect this sighting to known British data."

"You've received your passwords for our system?" When they all nod, Graves continues. "I'll have your team cleared for the report. It'll take me an hour or so to reach someone in systems. Maybe a bit longer, given that most of our staff's taken a long weekend due to tomorrow's holiday."

"Thank you, sir," Pansy says.

"My pleasure." Graves glances at the rest of them. "In the meantime, I'd like to ask you to stick close to New York. I assume we'll have clearance in the next forty-eight hours for you to begin your work on the ground, and we can, of course, provide you with ample archival research today, should you care to start building your case with our analysts. I believe you've already met with Cooper and Astinghall?"

Potter scowls, and Durant's mouth is twitches in amusement. There's a story there, Draco thinks, and now he wants to know more. He should get Blaise to gather more data on this, surreptitiously of course. Draco's not going to bloody well ask Potter himself. Not right now.

"Yes," Potter says, and the sullenness in his voice is clear. 

Graves looks sympathetic. "Analyst Cooper can be a bit…" He hesitates, considering, then says, "Outspoken, at times."

Durant snorts. "Understatement of the century," he says under his breath, and Potter gives him a look that would quell even Draco. Durant just throws a mocking smile back. Draco doesn't know why he's so irritated by the exchange.

"How are things back in Britain?" Graves turns towards Potter. "There're some interesting, high level reports out of London these days."

"Rough, sir." The deference is back in Potter's demeanour. "We've had a lot of unwelcome surprises over the past weeks."

Graves nods. "I'll want to speak with you about it later today, if you can make yourself available. Shacklebolt's approved, of course, but if you'd like to check with him, I'd understand." 

"I'd be more than happy to," Potter says. He's a fucking liar, and Draco knows it. He can tell by the way Potter's shoulders hunch ever so slightly. He knows Potter's tells. That's bloody well one of them.

Graves shifts in his chair. "I understand a member of your team discovered the recent murders." His gaze drifts over towards Althea, and she inhales roughly, holding her breath. Draco's worried she might faint there and then. She's been looking peaky all morning, ever since they'd met for breakfast in the hotel restaurant, and her face has a sickly green tinge to it.

"I knew Wrightson, of course." Graves' voice is almost indifferent. Draco can feel Althea's tension, see the way she's holding herself tightly, her fingers gripping the arms of her chair. "Good fellow. Pity that he went bad. Bates as well. It's always a shame when Aurors are tempted into criminal activity, although perhaps it indicates a deeper problem within the governmental structure. I can't say much for Arnold Peasegood, but I know Shacklebolt thought highly of him." 

Draco nudges Pansy, and she leans over, says something to Althea, who shakes her head. 

Graves doesn't seem to notice. Or maybe he does, and he doesn't fucking care, Draco thinks. Graves looks at Potter. "And I suppose now Luxembourg will want to roast your chestnuts for prisoner abuse and also lack of adequate protection in the holding cells."

Althea shudders and then she's on her feet, posture rigid. "Permission to leave, sir." She's speaking to Potter, not Graves.

"Permission granted," Potter says immediately, and Althea dashes out of the room. Graves watches her, his face unmoved.

Draco's not sure whose authority holds in a mixed-forces etiquette, but he's grateful to Potter for acting quickly. Althea looks awful, and he wonders if the reality of everything's starting to hit her. She's been so withdrawn since Thursday night, when the whole bloody case had started to fall about around them, but the enormity of the murders and her place within them has to be sinking in now, Draco knows from painful experience.

Potter turns in his seat. "Parkinson, Zabini, would you go make sure Whitaker's finding what she needs?"

"Of course, sir," Blaise's voice is polite and mild. He stands, Pansy at his heels, and they go out after Althea. 

Draco can't help but wonder why Potter wanted him to stay. It's just the three of them then, Durant, Potter, and Draco himself in front of Graves. Whilst Draco's glad that his friends are looking after Althea, he sorely feels the lack of their protection. Keeping as close to a blank look on his face as possible, he tries to read the tension in the room. Potter and Durant are like two attack dogs next to each other, each clearly still watching the other but with a vicious, almost angry energy brewing between them. Draco doesn't know whether to be glad or worried--he's found animosity can also be an aphrodisiac. He certainly knows this from his history with Potter, and he's wondering if maybe that lack of bitterness and anger between them now might cause Potter to lose interest in Draco in favour of whatever's seething under the surface between him and Durant. Draco's wishing he'd gone to Potter last night, but there's nothing he can do about it now. He wasn't ready then, isn't ready now, and Draco still doesn't know how to find his own footing--much less his footing with Potter--in this new environment.

When Draco turns his glance back to the desk in front of him, he realises Graves is studying him. He meets Graves' gaze evenly; Graves doesn't look away.

"Whitaker found Marcus Wrightson, Tom," Durant explains, drawing Graves' focus to himself. Draco's oddly relieved. He doesn't like the way Graves was looking at him, as if he were some curious specimen on display. "And she was on his team. In fact, she was the one who brought him in on charges against the Ministry."

Graves nods slowly. "Nasty business. I'm sorry to pry, but it's been hard to get information on all of the recent developments."

Draco privately thinks that Graves is bloody well informed indeed for something that only happened Thursday night, even if some of the information did leak out to the general public through the news media. Sod the _Prophet_ sideways.

"The last piece of information I have to share with you goes no further than this room." Graves shifts, looking directly at Draco again. "Particularly for you, Sergeant Malfoy."

And here we go, Draco thinks. "Yes, sir. I understand the sensitive nature of the material." He tries to sound unconcerned, although Potter's shooting him a worried glance, the bloody idiot.

"As I mentioned previously, we have reason to believe that Mr Dolohov's interests in the States are connected to wizarding extremists internationally, particularly in the United Kingdom." Graves leans forward in his chair. "We've suspicions of a rather extensive network of former Death Eaters who are funding certain organisations in North America--both in the United States and in Canada--who believe in wizarding supremacist ideology." He looks straight at Draco when he says this, and Draco shivers, but he keeps his goddamned back ramrod stiff. He refuses to look cowed in any way. Graves watches him carefully. "We believe these organisations have an intent to commit acts of terror against the state, whether in the US or the UK. We're not certain at this time, but we've been watching them, as have your Unspeakables in recent days, based on intelligence we've shared with them."

Draco nods slowly. It's not that surprising, after all, but it's chilling to think that what looks like a solo act of desperation on Dolohov's part, fleeing to the US, could actually be a larger pattern. 

"Saul Croaker didn't share this with us," Potter says sharply. 

Evidently neither had Granger, Draco thinks. Even Durant looks a bit taken aback.

Potter glances at Durant. "Did you know?"

"No." Durant shakes his head, looking at Graves. "It never came up in any of the meetings I was in."

"We shared it on a need-to-know basis," Graves says. "Given the current issues within the British Department of Magical Law Enforcement, you can understand why we might have been hesitant to let it be widespread knowledge. The last thing we want are these groups or their financial sponsors--" Here there's another sideways glance towards Draco that makes Draco's skin crawl. "Know that we were aware of their actions."

Potter still doesn't look happy. "You had to know Jake and I wouldn't be an issue.."

"But persons on your team might have been." Graves looks at Draco. "My apologies, Sergeant Malfoy."

He doesn't bloody well sound apologetic. 

"And now?" Draco finds himself asking. "I'm an acceptable security risk?"

Graves gives him a thin, dangerous smile. "Now you're in my country, Sergeant. I have a bit more confidence in my ability to quash you if I discover you still have an allegiance towards that marred Mark on your forearm."

Draco relaxes. He drops his shoulders and crosses one leg over the other. He'd rather have the threat out in the open, after all.

"You won't touch my team," Potter says, and his voice is deadly calm. "Not a single one of them, Tom."

Graves raises an eyebrow elegantly. "Then I'd make certain I've no reason to." He stops, and his polite smile goes feral. "Harry."

"It's fine, guv," Draco says to Potter, drawing his attention, and he doesn't give a fuck that Graves and Durant are listening in. It's the first time he's spoken directly to Potter all morning. "You know as well as I do that it's nothing but bluster."

Graves' smile widens. "Perhaps Sergeant Malfoy's correct." He leans back. "I'm certain we've nothing to worry about on that score. Any of us, the sergeant's father and his financial involvement beside the point. We've nothing to suggest Sergeant Malfoy is financially involved in this issue--"

"Fucking right you don't," Potter says, and Draco feels something warm and hopeful twist through him. Maybe he's wrong about Potter and Durant and New York. Maybe Blaise is right. Maybe Draco's just a melodramatic arsehole.

"Again," Graves says, almost ignoring Potter's growl, "this isn't something I want you to think about too much at this point, but it could become relevant to your investigations. And if you stumble across more evidence, you are to bring it directly to me personally, do I make myself clear?" Graves' voice takes on a steely tone.

Even Durant sits up and says, "Yes, sir," at this, which makes Draco think that request isn't routine, not in the least.

"Very well," Graves settles back. "I need to finish a few things and get clearance for that magiometric report before I leave the office today. I'll meet with you again but Jake, you know how to reach me in an emergency, yes?"

Durant nods. "Absolutely, sir."

"Good." Graves stands up. "I'm glad you are here to help us with this matter. We're fighting on several fronts, as you can see, and every ally counts. Enjoy your--" he stops. "Apologies. Enjoy our holiday, and, Potter, I'll see you later this afternoon."

Durant stands up, giving the cue that they've been dismissed, and Potter follows.

It's one of the oddest meetings Draco's sat through, strangely abrupt and casual for such serious business.

Still, Draco has a strong sense of larger shapes moving below the surface, and he doesn't like what he's able to perceive.

And judging from the troubled look on Potter's face, he bloody well doesn't either.

***

Pansy catches up with Althea in the hallway where she's stopped to lean against the wall, breathing hard. Blaise strolls after Pansy, his hands in his pockets.

"You all right there, old chum?" Blaise asks and he settles himself on one side of Althea whilst Pansy takes the other.

"Christ, they sent you out after me?" Althea lets her head tilt back. She stares up at the ceiling, and Pansy's rather certain she sees a bit of dampness at the corner of Althea's eyes. "I didn't mean to be so humiliating to all of us."

Pansy bumps her shoulder against Althea's. "Stop it. You're fine. It's that overblown bastard back in there who's the problem." Honestly, she can't believe the Director of Magical Security was so fucking insensitive. "He had to know you were the one who found them."

Althea wipes a thumb across the corner of her eye. "Yeah. Well, I'm an idiot, aren't I? Getting upset about all of it."

Pansy looks over at Blaise. "Tissue," she says to him, and he nods, heading towards the loo they’d passed just outside of Grave’s office suite. Pansy turns back to Althea, reaching for her hand.

"You found your guv dead in a holding cell," Pansy says bluntly. "Stop expecting yourself to be fine with it all. Circe, woman, if I found Potter dead, I'd have a complete breakdown. They’d have to sedate me for days, and look at you. Up and at work that very night. I don’t know when you’ll realise you’re trying to be too fucking strong. You don’t have to be. I know it’s hard, that the men all expect us to be like them, and when we express the slightest emotion we’re on our fucking period, yeah? Wankers.”

Pansy particularly hates that. It’d taken her most of Hogwarts to break Draco and Blaise of that response, and they still sometimes try to break it out. She’d hit the roof the time she’d found out they were tracking her cycle. Mostly because they had it sodding wrong, and if they were going to be that arseholish, she really thinks they could have learnt a bit more about female reproductive systems. So she’d told Olivia Zabini what they were up to, and, sure, Blaise hadn’t spoken to her for a week after his mother firecalled them both, but it was bloody worth it, Pansy thinks.

Althea looks over at her. “You’re an odd one, Parkinson,” she says, but there’s a faint smile curving her thin lips.

“I try.” Pansy tucks her hair behind one ear. She ought to have put it up in a knot, but the New York water’s wreaking havoc on the texture. She’s never had straighter hair than she woke up with this morning, and she’d tried for half an hour to pin it up, but it’d looked like shit every way she’d done it. So here she is, already hot and sweaty, and she’s indoors for Circe’s sake, and her hair’s down and sticking to the back of her neck, which is making her crankier. Pansy’s never at her best when she feels uncomfortable, she knows that. But she’s still not as a wobbly as Althea is at the moment, and that worries her.

“Fuck,” Althea says in a huff of breath. She presses the balls of her hands against her eyes and exhales. “I shouldn’t have drunk anything last night. I knew it was a bad idea. I haven’t the genetics—“

Pansy tugs at the cuff of Althea’s sleeve, pulling one of her hands down. “You’re worried about turning into your dad.”

Althea drops her other hand and looks at Pansy. “It’s a valid concern,” she says.

“You had three drinks at the bar,” Pansy says. “Not exactly alcoholic material.”

“And one of the little bottles of gin from the mini-bar in my room,” Althea admits, and she lets her head thunk back against the wall. She winces. “This is why I limit myself to one usually. It’s too easy to slide down that slope.”

Pansy watches her for a long moment. “All right,” she says. “That makes sense. But stop slapping yourself around now about it. You fucked up. Do I need to get you to a meeting or something?”

“No.” Althea glances over at her. “It’s not that sort of thing. I’m just overcautious, I suppose. I don’t want to be my dad, and that’s probably the best way to put on the brakes. But thanks.”

“I would, if I needed to.” Pansy shrugs. “All you’d have to do is ask.”

Althea turns her head, and she’s so close that Pansy can see the tiny sprinkling of freckles across her nose and cheeks. She’s never noticed that before. Or that Althea has such deep brown eyes.

Pansy looks away, oddly embarrassed when Althea smiles.

“You’re not as tough as you seem,” Althea says. “Are you?”

“Look, cow,” Pansy says lightly. “You keep my secrets, I’ll keep yours, yeah?”

Althea snorts as Blaise comes back with a wad of loo paper in his hand. “It’s all I could find,” he says, and he hands it over to Althea who takes it reluctantly. Still, she dabs a bit of it at the corner of her eyes, then shoves the rest of it in her pocket.

“Christ,” she says, and Blaise grins at her.

“You’re starting to sound like the guv,” Blaise says. “Now you just need to learn how to throw a strop like him—“

“Or like Draco,” Pansy says. “I think his are better.”

Blaise considers. “Louder, definitely, but I’d argue Potter’s are more effective due to the fact that they’re not as frequent. Also he usually gets what he wants. Draco? Not so much.”

He has a point, Pansy thinks. “But God help us if they turn on each other.”

Althea laughs, sharp and quick and in genuine amusement. “Maybe it’s just foreplay.”

Blaise stiffens, and Pansy shakes her head at him. “She knows. She’d already figured it out.”

“I’m not complete idiot,” Althea says, and Blaise relaxes a little. "I mean, I did sort Ravenclaw."

“You’re not going to—“

Althea’s already shaking her head. “It’s not going to make me think Potter’s a great SIO,” she says quietly, “but I’m not stupid enough to go up against him. Besides, it happens. Maxie told me Robards and Penelope Abbott had an affair for years, and everyone turned a blind eye to it. Even their spouses. So, even if I wanted to--and I don't, for the record--I don’t think me shouting it about’s going to do anything.”

“Penelope Abbott?” Blaise looks scandalised. “How did someone like Robards land her? She’s twice out of his league.”

“Haven’t you seen the old pictures of Our Gawain?” Pansy asks. “He was well fit when he was younger.” Tall, broad-shouldered and handsome, and a bit nebbishy, to boot. Definitely her type.

She’s definitely not thinking about Tony now.

Althea gives Blaise an apologetic look. “I have to agree, and I’m as bent as they come. I can see the attraction.”

Blaise shakes his head. “You’re both off your nut. Our Gawain looked like a twattish accountant.” He stops and eyes Pansy. “Wait, I can see it for you, at least.”

Alma Espinoza comes around the corner, walking at a fast clip. Until she sees them, at least. She stops and blinks. “I was just coming to find you all. We’ve got a room set up for you.”

“Potter and Malfoy are still in with Graves and Durant,” Pansy says, but then she hears what she’s certain is Draco’s drawl from around the corner. “Or not.”

Espinoza is eyeing Althea speculatively, and that annoys Pansy. She moves in front of Althea, drawing Espinoza to the side, whilst Blaise side-steps them and takes her place next to Althea. It’s smooth, almost seamless. She and Blaise have known each other so long they can almost read each other’s minds. And they’re both feeling a bit protective of Althea right now, she thinks. It’s not something she’d ever have expected, but there it is, and Pansy's not going to fight it. Not right now.

Potter rounds the corner with Draco at his side and Durant following behind, his mouth a thin line. Pansy looks over at Potter, then back at Draco. The tension between the two of them isn’t as bad as it was yesterday, but they’re still not quite at ease with one another. Not with Durant there. That worries Pansy even more. Her mind's already spinning, trying to figure out how to protect Draco. And Potter as well, if she's honest.

They’re all going to need each other by the time this case is over, Pansy’s fairly certain. Whether or not they're comfortable with that fact.

Pansy sighs and wraps her arms around herself, a nervous flutter in her stomach. It doesn’t take a fucking Seer to know what's coming down the line. She just hopes they'll survive it all. 

Somehow.

***

The room Espinoza puts Harry and his team in is on the shit side of the Woolworth Building, along an inner hall. There are no windows, but the room's short and wide and the lighting's decent enough.

"Sorry," Espinoza says, looking over the motley array of desks and the two whiteboards shoved in the corner. "We were using this space for storage a few weeks ago."

"It's fine." Harry sets his satchel down on one of the desks. "We won't be here long." Malfoy and Zabini are already pulling the desks into their preferred formation around the whiteboards, and for a moment, Harry can imagine that they're tucked away in their old incident room in the Ministry. Except this one has whiter walls and the carpet's a bit newer, but only by fifty years or so. 

Parkinson claims one of the desks. "At least it doesn't reek of Blaise's smoked fish yet."

"Don't be mocking my taste in fine foods," Zabini says from the corner, and Whitaker smiles over at him, faintly, but it's there. It'd been a good decision to send Zabini and Parkinson out after her, Harry thinks. Whitaker still seems a bit fragile, but more stable than she'd been when she'd had to run out of Graves' office. Harry makes a mental note to ask Parkinson to keep an eye out for her, although he thinks maybe she already is. Whitaker's starting to fit in better with the team as a whole, Harry thinks, even with Malfoy despite the stiffness that's still between them at times. Although she's been a bit awkward around Harry this morning. He's not certain why. 

Jake brushes past Espinoza and into the room. "You in with us, Alms?" he asks. "Graves said he was assigning you to me."

"I'm just waiting for the official word," Espinoza says. "Should have it by lunch, then I'll report for duty once De Luca releases me." She leans against the door jamb. "Who else is coming on--"

"Me, babe." Martine Boucher, a tall Québécoise with dark, short hair and broad shoulders, comes in behind Jake. She stops just past Espinoza, her gaze meeting Harry's. "Hello again," she says to him, and Harry tries not to flinch at the angry look in her eyes. "Putain de con."

Jake sighs. "Martine."

But she's already walking up to Harry, and when the palm of her hand cracks against his cheek, his whole head jerks back, his eyes watering at the sharp sting of it. Martine's got a heavy hand--heavier than she realises, Harry thinks--and he suspects he might have a bit of a bruise along his jaw tomorrow. He presses his hand against it, blinking away the pain as best he can. "Hi, Martine." Harry tries to ignore the stunned expressions on his team's faces, although the fierce, outraged look Malfoy's giving Martine makes Harry relax just a bit. Maybe Malfoy's not that angry with him after all, despite being distant this morning.

"Sacrament." Martine swears, flexing her fingers and rubbing her other hand across her palm. "I just wanted to get that out of the way."

"Fine," Harry says uncharitably. He hopes that fucking hurt her too. "If I'm going to have to work with you and all."

Espinoza looks horrified. Harry thinks he has an ally in her at least. Martine's hated him for ages, since the first time Jake brought him back to New York when they'd first started dating. Harry's never known why; Martine'd just said he was going to break Jake's heart and she wouldn't fucking stand for it. He supposes she hasn't been wrong about that. Jake swears Martine has a touch of the Sight, but he'd never bothered to listen to her about Harry. If he had, Harry wonders, would they be in this mess now?

Jake looks over at Martine, his mouth a thin line. "Do that again, and I'll have you transferred over to fucking Wand Permits." Harry knows he means it, as does Martine. Jake's been tired of their squabbling for a while now. 

Martine grins and shakes her hand out. "Worth it, and I'd do it again."

Out of the corner of his eye, Harry catches a glimpse of Zabini pulling Malfoy back. He almost wishes Martine had slapped him in private; he thinks she may have just made herself an enemy out of Malfoy. Still, Harry's vain enough to admit he'd be glad of that right now.

Jake turns to Harry. "Get your team under control," he says quietly, his voice tight, and he's looking over at Malfoy and Zabini. "I don't want any issues with mine."

"Keep Martine from hitting me then," Harry snaps, a twist of anger going through him. "It's not my bloody team that's the problem." He doesn't bother to lower his voice. He doesn't give a fuck who hears him.

The look Jake gives him is vicious; Harry returns it in kind. He's bloody well not going to let his team get harassed because Martine Boucher can't keep her sodding temper. He looks over at her. "Hit me again, Martine, and I'll take you down."

"Like to see you try," Martine says calmly, and she walks over to Espinoza. "Let's go get your paperwork from De Luca."

"Well, she's a bitch," Parkinson says after the two of them leave the room. Harry and Jake both turn towards her. 

"Not any more than any of you," Jake snaps, and Zabini's eyes narrow at him. 

"Oi," Zabini says sharply. "Watch it, Jake."

Jake looks at him, and Harry can see the struggle on Jake's face not to lose his temper. To Harry's surprise, Jake looks away and nods. "I apologise." He hesitates. "For myself and Martine."

Malfoy's by Harry's side, his fingers brushing Harry's hand before he reaches up and turns Harry's face, looking at it with a frown. "You're bruising," he says. His fingers are featherlight against Harry's skin, but they still hurt when they press against Harry's cheek. Harry winces, and Malfoy's mouth tightens. "If she touches you again," he says softly, so only Harry can hear, "I'll fucking rip her face off."

Harry just looks at him. Malfoy's face is fierce and sharp, and Harry doesn't doubt him for an instant. "She won't," he murmurs. When Harry looks over, Jake glances away, his jaw clenched. This is going to be harder than Harry thought it'd be. Particularly since he's going to have to be the fucking better man, he realises, and he's petty enough to be narked off about that. 

"Look," Harry says bluntly, to the whole room. "This is awkward for all of us. But we're going to have to be a goddamned team." He looks over at Jake. "Your lot too. We're here to solve a case, not start a goddamned international incident, so let's just do our fucking jobs. Keep our personal shit out of it."

They're all silent for a moment, then Whitaker says, "I'm keen to do that."

Jake sighs, then holds his hand out to Harry. "Fine." He doesn't look happy, not even when Harry takes his hand. It's warm and strong and Harry remembers how it'd felt on his hip, how thick and slick Jake's fingers had been in his body. Harry pulls away, and he knows from the look on Jake's face that he's thinking something similar. Harry shifts away, back towards the comfort of Malfoy's side, away from those painful memories. Jake looks away. 

"Maybe we should break for coffee, and then gather what we can from analysis." Harry's not sure it'll help the case, but it'll help the team to have something to do. It'll help him most of all. Harry needs a break, a chance to take a breath and gather himself again. 

"Sure," Jake says, "but I'm leaving at two. It's a holiday tomorrow, after all."

Harry nods. "We'll stay a bit later and enjoy continuing to be British on your Yank Independence Day." He knows his smile doesn't reach his eyes.

"See that you do," Jake says. He's not smiling either as he slams out of the room, leaving Harry and his team behind.

This is going to be a shitshow of epic proportions. Harry wishes they were back in London right now because frankly it couldn't be worse than this, he thinks.

Harry looks around at the grim, uncertain faces of his team.

Then again, maybe it could.

***

Jake's been drinking at Hank's Saloon since it was the Doray Tavern and he'd first moved to Brooklyn from Atlanta. He likes the beat-downness of it all, the black exterior painted with flames, the doors covered with stickers from the bands who've played there over the years, the dark inside with the long bar flanked with unsteady stools on one side and liquor bottles stacked five deep on the other, string lights draped from the ceiling, glittering red and green and blue. Pabst and Bud Light signs glow like neon beacons in the windows. Jeannie's still behind the bar, a bit more weathered than she'd been the first time he walked in, practically still wet behind the ears, and she comes out to give him a hug, the scent of cigarette smoke, stale beer and orange blossom perfume clinging to her tiny, compact frame.

"Want a beer, babe?" Jeannie asks in that gravelly voice of hers.

"Give me an Old Crow," Jake says, and Jeannie nods at him, reaching for a glass. 

Martine shows up just after Jeannie sets Jake's bourbon on the bar, sliding onto the stool beside Jake. It's nearly five; Jake's hope of leaving the office by two had been a fucking pipe dream. He'd stayed until Harry'd left with his team, mostly because Jake wasn't going to give him the fucking satisfaction of being the good little hardworking Auror that Harry likes to present himself as. 

"Guinness, Jeannie?" Martine looks over at Jake. "Ça va?"

"I'm fine," Jake says, but he's not so certain. He feels stretched thin after today, a hell of a lot more fragile than he'd like to admit. He lifts his bourbon and takes a sip, grimacing at the bite of the whisky. He's used to European versions now, and his daddy would say he's gone fucking soft. Jasper Durant's a hard, opinionated son of a bitch.

"C’est de la bullshit," Martine says bluntly and takes the pint Jeannie passes over to. "Merci, you brilliant woman." She glances back over at Jake. "I've known you too long."

She has, Jake thinks. Martine grew up north of Montreal in a No-Maj family that didn't care for her magical abilities or the fact that she liked to fuck girls. She'd left Canada before she finished high school, escaping over the border to Vermont where she'd found a commune of witches and wizards who'd taught her how to control her magic, how to use it properly. She'd gone into the Auror force in Boston, then transferred down to New York right about the same time Jake had arrived, and they'd become fast friends, even sharing an apartment for a year until Martine had started dating Jenny Santiago. That'd gone explosively bad, but by then Jake had been back and forth between New York and Paris training at the Institut Tirésias, and Martine had found her own place over in Bed-Stuy. He still misses having her as a roommate, though. It'd been nice not having to go home to an empty apartment.

Jake turns his glass between his hands. "Today wasn't easy."

Martine watches him. "Harry."

"Harry," Jake agrees.

"Fucker," Martine says, taking a drink of her beer.

"Didn't really want to have to work with him again," Jake admits. "At least in London Hermione was a buffer between us. Here it's just him and me, and Graves expects us to be leading this ragtag team together."

Martine sets her glass down. "You could ask to be removed."

"As if Graves would do that." Jake rests his elbows on the sticky bar. "Besides, I've been working with them already. I can't just fuck off."

"You could." Martine's watching him with those dark, sharp eyes of hers. "Why not?"

Jake doesn't want to answer that, and he looks away. It's complicated, all of it. 

Martine's quiet for a moment, then she says, "You don't want him back."

"No." Jake's fairly certain of that. Whatever he might feel when he sees Harry here in New York, walking together through the halls of MACUSA the way they had before, Jake knows it's for the best that they're not together any more. He hadn't been what Harry needed, he thinks. Maybe he never could be. Still, there's a quiet ache inside of him that he didn't expect. "It's been six weeks now. I thought I was over it all."

"Takes time." Martine runs a finger around the rim of her glass. Her pale skin glows reddish beneath the string lights. "But you weren't ever in love with him, Jake. I know you thought you were. But it was all bullshit, for both of you. It was good sex, sure. You had fun, and then everyone expected you to settle down, so you did, and it was the stupidest thing either of you've done." She looks over at him, a sober expression on her face. "I tried to talk you out of it."

She had. She'd told him not to ask Harry to move to New York, to enjoy what they had in Luxembourg. "I thought you just didn't like him," Jake says.

Martine sighs. "I don't hate him."

"He thinks you do." Jake gives her a faint smile. "You didn't help that by slapping the shit out of him today, you know."

"Tabarnak, that felt good, though." Martine's eyes crinkle up at the corners. She lifts her glass to her mouth. "He shouldn't have fucking cheated on you. With the pointy one, is it? The one who looked like he wanted to come after me?" She snorts. "As if he could have."

Jake nods. "Malfoy. He's not so bad. It's not his fault either, so don't set your sights on making him miserable, yeah? He didn't know Harry and I were dating."

Martine looks disgusted. "Of course he didn't. Putain." She spits the insult out, then glances over at Jake. "Maybe I do hate Harry. Just a little."

"It's not worth it," Jake says. But maybe it is. He feels better, having Martine sitting beside him like this. He's missed her and her bluntness since he's been in London. This is the first time since Harry dumped him that he feels like he's had someone entirely on his side. Hermione'd tried, but Harry's her best friend. Jake wouldn't ever expect her to turn on him. Not the way Martine will. She's fiercely loyal and fiercely protective, and fuck if Jake doesn't need that right about now. 

"Don't tell me what's worth it or not," Martine says, leaning against the bar. Her white sleeves are rolled up to her elbows. She gives him a quick smile. "Someone needs to hate him so you don't have to." She frowns down into her Guinness. "I don't like what he did, Jake. I know you had your arrangement. I get it. Sex with whomever, just keep it out of the same city, all that. I don't understand it, but I get it. But Harry fucked up, and then he fucked you over, and somebody needs to be the one to say that's shit because Christ knows you won't. Be a bastard sometimes, man. It's not the worst thing in the world." 

Jake stares at the rows of bottles behind the bar, the string lights reflected in the depths of their curved glass sides. He doesn't want to be a bastard. He's too tired and too damned old, he thinks. He just turned thirty-two. It'd been stupid of him to be involved with someone six years younger than him. Maybe they were just too different. They'd grown up in such different ways, in such different places. Maybe it was crazy to think they'd work. He finishes his bourbon and raises the empty glass so Jeannie sees it. She reaches for the bottle of Old Crow.

"Fuck, it still hurts, Martine," Jake says, and Jeannie sets another glass of bourbon in front of him. "It shouldn't. But you're right. I don't think I loved him."

"You loved the idea of him," Martine says after a moment. "We've all been there. Look at me and Jenny." Her mouth twists bitterly. "That was a fuck-up right there, and I survived. Scarred and battle-worn, but I'm still fucking here."

Jake looks over at her. He thinks she's right. "God, I'm an idiot."

"A bit." Martine scrapes her almost nonexistent thumbnail over the wood of the bar. Her short hair falls over her forehead, and she pushes it back. "Look, you tried. I watched you try. Hell, I even think Harry tried, in his own way, but he wasn't your person, you know? You weren't meant to stay together. If you were, things wouldn't have gone the way they did. And you'd be fighting a hell of a lot harder to get him back. So." She shrugs. "Let him go, babe. There's someone else out there for you."

"Maybe." Jake thinks of long, brown fingers and a bright, mocking smile, then he shakes his head. Those are dangerous, impossible thoughts, and he knows it. 

Still, Martine catches his look. "You've got someone in mind, have you?" She raises an eyebrow. 

"I don't." But Jake can't meet her gaze, and Martine's known him for too long not to figure out that he's lying. 

"Who?" She demands, and then her forehead furrows. "It's got to be someone you met in London…" She trails off. "Jake."

He still won't look at her. "What?"

"The hot, posh one." Martine's watching him, her eyes narrowed. "On Harry's team. The pointy one's friend."

Jake feels his face heat. "Fuck off."

"Oh, my God." Martine laughs. "You're fucking kidding me. Zamboni--"

"Zabini," Jake snaps. "Not everything's about hockey." 

Martine waves a hand at this sacrilege. "Whatever. You're crushing on him."

"I am not," Jake says, his voice heated. "I'm a grown ass man who doesn't have _crushes_ \--"

"Fuck you, we all do." Martine picks up her Guinness again. "Old Mrs Randolph in my building spends all day waiting for our mailman Georg to come by, and she's almost ninety."

"Old Mrs Randolph is also a perv," Jake points out, and Martine shrugs. 

"She has an appreciation of the male form that I don't share," Martine says, "but I fully support her in her pure delight at catching a glimpse of Georg's legs when shorts season comes around."

Jake rubs his ear. "Georg does look good in them, I'll admit."

"So you and Zabini." Martine eyes Jake. "When are you going to make your move? Christ knows you need a good fuck. How many weeks has it been?"

Six, Jake wants to say, thinking back to that last night in Grimmauld Place, Harry beneath him, smelling like Malfoy's spunk, but he settles for glaring at her. "I'm not moving on him. Jesus. I've been in his head, Martine. That crosses way too many boundaries for me." Not to mention he's provided testimony for Blaise's hearing. There are far too many power dynamics at play there to make him comfortable with what he's feeling. 

Martine looks unimpressed. "So what? You're a Legilimens. You've been in my head."

"And I'm not fucking you either," Jake says bluntly. 

"As if I'd let you." Martine shifts on her stool, her knee bumping against Jake's. "Come on, man. You know that's a shit excuse. If you like him, ask him out."

But Jake's already shaking his head. "I'm not rebounding right now. Not with him. Not with anyone. It's a bad idea." He has to keep telling himself that. There's something about Blaise that Jake finds fascinating, that draws Jake's gaze to him across the room. It's almost unsettling, and all Jake can chalk it up to is the ritual in the Beaumont. He's never had this much trouble getting someone out of his head. Not even Harry. 

Martine frowns. "You've never balked at a bad idea before."

"This one's a little too personal," Jake admits. He twists his glass between his hands. "Although I did tell him he could come to your Fourth of July party tomorrow." Jake looks up at her. "I'm assuming you're still having it at my place?"

"Can't fit everyone into my studio, can I?" Martine studies him. "So you won't ask him out, but you'll invite him to the party?" She shakes her head, then she stills. "Fuck, Jake, tell me Harry's not showing up too."

"God, no." The idea horrifies Jake. "I'm not that stupid." Harry'd come last year, though, and they'd sneaked off to the patio in the backyard to make out whilst everyone else in the apartment got plastered on beer and the vodka gimlets Martine had, by her own admission the next day, maybe made with too heavy a hand. Harry'd given him a spectacular hand job. Jake doesn't want to remember that right now, though. 

Martine relaxes a bit. "All right then." She finishes off her Guinness, then sets her glass down. "Drink up. I've got to pee, and I'm not using the bathroom in here." 

Jake snorts and lifts his glass. "It's not that bad." Martine never will though. She always makes him let her into his apartment. At least it's only two blocks around the corner. Martine pulls out her wallet and pays their tab as Jake swallows the last of his bourbon. 

He slides off his stool, and Martine slips her arm through his. "I'm glad you're home," she says.

Honestly, Jake's fucking glad he is too, he thinks, as they walk out into the warmth of Atlantic Avenue and the comforting familiarity of Brooklyn itself.

This is where he belongs. Not London. Not Luxembourg.

Just Brooklyn. The one place Jake can truly be himself.

***

A pool of light covers the edge of the sofa where Harry's sat, trying to figure out what to read next. He's just finished one of the files on known wizarding locales in Brighton Beach Cooper had slammed onto his desk this afternoon, saying Graves had finally fucking given him clearance. He eyes the stack of related file jackets at the foot of the small sofa. Cooper and Astinghall had grudgingly let him take official files out of the building with every promise short of an Unbreakable Vow that he would bring them back first thing on the morning of the fifth. There'd been a moment when he'd worried that Cooper was going to snatch them back, but Astinghall had managed to pull her out of the incident room before she could.

Thank Christ, because these reports are bloody good.

Harry rolls his shoulders, trying to get a crick out of his neck. He should be working at the desk across the room, but he likes this little sitting area and its comfortable sofa. He rubs at his face, forgetting that it's still bruised, and fuck, but it doesn't half smart. Martine packs a heavy slap, and he's grateful she didn't punch him outright. Despite his bravado, Harry knows exactly how fierce she is in a fight. He won't be cowed, especially not in front of his team--in front of Malfoy, his mind corrects and Harry ignores it--but he's just as happy not to have to face her directly. Martine's something of a bare-knuckle boxing expert, and she doesn't like him, never has if he's honest, no matter how much she'd pretended for Jake's sake.

The thing is, this teamwork is going to be awkward no matter how well it goes. So Harry's trying to distract himself from the events of the day with more work, and he doesn't care if it's mindless note-taking on files that he could have read in half an hour in the MACUSA intelligence archive. It's been so frustrating to be sent back to New York in a hurry and then told to wait, but he supposes he ought to have expected it. Graves has always been like this; he's had to hear Jake complain for years about it. 

Still, his teams' nerves are fraying. He'd been surprised when Whitaker finally came apart today in Graves' office, and although she was looking better by the end of day, Harry's still worried they've made a mistake in bringing her along. She's not ready to be back in the field after Wrightson, and neither he nor Gawain shouldn't have trusted that she was. Harry rubs his hands together, wondering whether he should send her home. He wishes he could ring Hermione, but it's half-eight here which means it's arse o'clock in England right now. Ron would have his bollocks if Harry even tried. Unless it was an emergency, and Harry's pretty certain this doesn't qualify as one.

And then, on top of it all, there's Malfoy.

Harry knows it's got to be rough on Malfoy that this is Jake's territory--bloody hell, Harry's feeling unwelcome here, and he knows everyone already. Harry doesn't know whether it's that he's returning after turning down Graves' offer of a permanent position with the New York office, or whether it's everyone expecting him and Jake to still be together and being shocked to find out they're not. Harry knows he's to blame for the last one, but he's a bit taken aback by the blunt dismay he's encountered from everyone, the worries about Jake being all right whilst Harry's being glared at for daring to toss their favoured son over. Christ, Harry hopes it'll get better once the gossip about their breakup spreads. But it might be too late for Malfoy for him to trust him again, and Harry has no idea what he'll do if this messes everything up between them. He can only give Malfoy his space and wait and see.

For now, his team are on their own tomorrow for a much-needed a break. They shouldn't have much else to do except sleep and go out to sightsee in the afternoon and evening. They'll likely have to eat here at the hotel tomorrow, Harry thinks, because nothing else'll be open. They might find some vendors close to the fireworks or restaurants open on the Fourth, but breakfast will have to be at the hotel. 

Parkinson mentioned something about going to a party at her sister's; Harry'd overheard her telling Malfoy it was in the Hamptons, and she was hoping she'd packed the right things. Just before they'd left for the day, Harry'd watched Jake pull Zabini aside, and he's pretty sure Jake invited Zabini to his usual Fourth of July party. Martine must be throwing it this year, Harry imagines, and he'd felt a pull in his chest watching Jake give Zabini the familiar address in Boerum Hill. It'd been Harry's address not too long ago. But Harry has no right to jealousy, not after everything he's done. Harry glances reflexively out of the window, toward Brooklyn. He can see the Heights from here, and the Bridge. He misses it, he realises.

More than he'd thought he would.

If Harry's honest, it's been so distracting to be around Malfoy and Jake and to have everything overlapping. He's experiencing not only waves of guilt but also ridiculous levels of being fucking turned on as hell, especially every time Malfoy had looked over at him this afternoon. Jesus, but Harry'd wanted him, and Malfoy'd been watching him out of the corner of his eye. Harry could tell. He knows Malfoy's looks, and Harry'd been certain Malfoy'd wanted him. Especially when he'd catch his lip between his teeth and look away when he realised Harry was watching him too. 

Harry's been hoping Malfoy might stop by after dinner, wherever he and Zabini ended up at--there'd been an argument over Greek versus Thai at one point in the afternoon--but Harry thinks he should stop being ridiculous. He palms his cock through the thin red jersey of his pyjamas, shuddering at how good it feels, how quickly his nerves respond to touch. One more file, and he'll wank with the curtains open, looking out over the East River. The corner suite they'd given him has astonishing views--it almost makes Harry wish he'd decided to live here. The city is so beautiful; it takes his breath away.

Harry drops his hand, picks up a file from the stack. He settles down with a dossier on the Abadzhievs and their Chicago connections. As he's beginning to leaf through its contents, a knock comes at the door. It's so faint, Harry thinks he's dreamed it. But then it comes again, and Harry leaps up, scattering half the file contents. He swears, grabs his wand to collect everything, throws the file on the desk and opens the door.

Malfoy's standing at the hall with a pissy expression on his face and his right hand outstretched to rap on the door again, dressed in a pale blue t-shirt and a pair of navy plaid flannel pyjama bottoms, his feet bare. He scowls when Harry appears, then his gaze drops, and Malfoy raises his eyebrows, a faint flush staining his cheeks. "Jesus, Potter. Get inside. You don't want everyone to see you like that."

As Malfoy shoves him backwards into the room with a hand to the center of his chest, Harry realises that he's tenting his pants something fierce. And he supposes he probably also should have thought about putting on a shirt before he'd thrown the door open, but he'd been so hopeful that it'd be Malfoy knocking. He's belatedly worried about the state of the room with all the files. He looks around. It could be worse, he supposes. Cooper'd probably shout at him about classified documents being spread out across the place

Malfoy crosses his arms over his chest as the door swings shut behind him. "Nice suite."

Honestly, Harry doesn't know what to say. His face feels tight with awkwardness, and he's uncertain what Malfoy wants from him right now--Harry, on the other hand, knows exactly what he wants from Malfoy. It's taking everything he has not to put his hands on Malfoy's narrow hips. "Thanks," he says finally. "It has great views." He gestures behind him, towards the windows and the city beyond.

Malfoy, however, looks straight at Harry's straining prick, his mouth softening. "I can see the views. You know, you would have frightened a room service worker half to death if you'd opened the door like that." He moves closer, and Harry tries not to shiver. 

"I didn't really think it could be anyone else." Harry rubs a hand over the back of his neck. "You're the only one I wanted to show up at my room."

"I should hope so." The look in Malfoy's eyes is fierce, hungry, and Harry's breath catches. Malfoy steps into Harry's space, crowding him against the desk across from the sofa. Harry almost stumbles over the chair, and Malfoy reaches out a hand to steady him. "There better not be anyone else, Potter."

"Jealous, Malfoy?" Harry can barely get the words out. His whole body's thrumming, anxious for Malfoy to brush against him. _Please,_ he thinks. _I need you. So badly._

And then Malfoy presses Harry against the glass surface of the desk, his hands everywhere, touching Harry's face, Harry's throat, cupping the back of Harry's skull as he leans in to brush Harry's lips with his. It's so careful, so light, but it sends shudders of want going through Harry's entire body. Malfoy's jealousy's a bloody turn-on, if he's honest. Nothing makes him harder than an angry, needy, possessive Malfoy.

Harry groans, letting Malfoy take charge, loving how it feels to be touched again. It's only been a day, he thinks, his mind fuzzy with desire. Only a day, and it feels like a goddamned eternity. He can't even imagine what it would be like if Draco filed those bloody transfer papers Harry still has stuffed in the pocket of his coat, if he went to another division or even another team and left Harry behind. Harry's heart sinks with terror every time he thinks about it.

"I was wondering if you were coming," Harry says against Malfoy's mouth. "I've been thinking about you for bloody ages." Harry's erection presses against Malfoy's hips through the two layers of their thin pyjama bottoms. Fucking hell, Harry's certain he could almost come like this if he could get enough friction. "Wondering if you were going to bloody leave me like this."

Malfoy bites Harry's lip fiercely, stinging, and Harry's breath stutters. He likes Malfoy like this, angry, on the offensive, possessive. Harry doesn't mind a bit of rough handling if it means Malfoy wants him.

Not at all. 

Malfoy snorts, his teeth nipping along Harry's jaw. "I took a bath after dinner. You didn't have to wait very long." 

"You smell amazing," Harry's nose is tickled by the feather-fine strands of Malfoy's hair as Malfoy looms over him, pouting. There's a citrusy, clean scent to Malfoy's skin and his skin looks fresh and pink.

Malfoy crowds Harry further against the desk, and Harry lets Malfoy kiss him, long and slow and heated, lets Malfoy's tongue slide possessively into his mouth and ravage its depths until Harry's breathless and weak under Malfoy. 

"It felt like forever," Harry says, his voice gravelly, his hands dropping to Malfoy's hips which are pushing against his in a careful, steady roll. 

Malfoy slides a thumb under Harry's pyjama bottoms and strokes the skin of his arse. "These trousers are soft, but they should come off."

Harry shivers, legs shaky. "What, no pyjama fetish?" He's joking, of course. There's very little sexy about his faded red Gryffindor jersey pyjamas, even if they are deliciously comfortable with age.

The grip of Malfoy's hand on the top of his arse is certainly a turn-on--and isn't it indicative of Malfoy's possessiveness, Harry thinks. Malfoy's trying to claim him, and Harry bloody likes the idea that Malfoy wants to manhandle him, to remind Harry of his own need. 

"I only have a fetish if I imagine that we are still at Hogwarts, and I'm sneaking into your room, but well, Gryffindor Tower." Malfoy's hand grabs at Harry's arse, pulling Harry against him. Fuck but Malfoy's prick is hard and hot against Harry's, and it's all that Harry can do not to throw him onto the sofa right there and have him. "Not the most of seductive of make-out spots."

"We did all right in the Tower," Harry says, gasping a little as Malfoy's hips press against his, his cock sliding over Harry's. "But the view here is better. It's like flying."

Malfoy turns his head and really looks out the window for the first time. He stops for a moment, his pale, angular features backlit by the warm light from the standing lamp and the cool glow of the tall buildings beyond. The view's almost as stunning as Malfoy, Harry thinks--they're so high up, they might as well be in the clouds. Far below there's the ribbon of the river and lights upon lights from the city, glittering against the lengthening dusk.

After a moment of wonder, Malfoy recovers himself, turning back to Harry and nipping his bottom lip. "As if I'd be caught dead in Gryffindor Tower, anyway, Potter. I'd have made you sneak around and fucked you in the Slytherin dungeons."

And oh, Harry's knees are weak at that thought. Malfoy laying a claim to him in his own territory. The things they might have done to each other back then. Harry's breathless with want, his prick near to bursting. "Hard to imagine you and I could be quiet enough for your house not to notice."

Malfoy presses his face against Harry's neck for a moment, biting fiercely until Harry gasps from the pain and his prick throbs. Malfoy leans back to survey his handiwork. "Exhibitionist, are we?" Malfoy's warm against Harry, his prick pressing into Harry's belly and his arms wrapped around Harry's waist. 

Oh, if Malfoy only knew.

"Yeah, I am. A bit. Surprised?" Harry thinks privately that Malfoy has no cause for surprise, given how this whole thing between them started and the amount of public sex they've had since, but, well, every time with Malfoy is like they're having sex again for the first time. He never knows what to expect. There's no memory of the past, only the beat of blood in his body and the sense that he has to have Malfoy now--or give himself to him.

Whichever Malfoy wants. Harry would do bloody anything for him, and he's certain Malfoy has no goddamned idea.

Malfoy runs his teeth along Harry's neck where it meets his shoulder, and biting a bit fiercely, until Harry's breath catches again. "I should fuck you up against those windows," Malfoy says against Harry's throat. "Let all of New York watch you being buggered."

The shiver in Harry's body goes all the way through his body, wracking him with want. "Jesus fuck, Malfoy. Yes. Whatever you want. But I'm afraid I might not last. I'm so close already." He presses his hips forward, lets Malfoy feel how hard he is again. Harry's frightened by how turned on he is at the prospect of Malfoy claiming him in front of the city; his body is on fire with the promise of it, and it makes his heart sing in his chest. He wants nothing more to let Malfoy take him in full view of the buildings, against the skyline of New York. But tonight he doesn't have the focus--he's too far gone as it is.

"Later then." Malfoy swats Harry's thigh. His breath is quick and uneven, and Harry can tell exactly how much Malfoy wants him right now. "Take these off and sit on the sofa."

Harry does what he's told. He sets his glasses on the desk before sliding out of his pyjama bottoms, leaving them crumpled on the floor. On the sofa, he spreads his knees, naked, and Malfoy's gaze drifts down his body. Harry shivers under his exacting scrutiny. 

"I suppose this will do." Malfoy takes off his own thin cotton t-shirt, then the plaid flannel pyjamas he's wearing, letting them slip to the floor. Harry's mouth is watering at the sight of Malfoy's flat abdomen, his angular hipbones, the pink curve of his perfect, beautiful prick.

Malfoy tilts his head, standing before Harry, then pushes the small table in front of the sofa out of the way with his ankle. He settles above Harry, his knees on either side, his prick rubbing against Harry's.

"Oh," Harry says, and he draws in a sharp breath. "Fuck."

"Yeah?" Malfoy's hand is strong and long fingered. He wraps it around both of their cocks, pulling them together in one tight grip. "And that?"

Harry's head makes a loud thunk as it drops back against the wall. It hurts for just a moment, then Harry doesn't give a damn because Malfoy's hand is tight and perfect around his prick. "Oh fuck, Jesus buggering Christ, that's good." Harry thrusts up into Malfoy's hand. Malfoy's grip is punishing, pulling Harry to the edge almost immediately. "Malfoy--"

Malfoy kisses him, and Harry doesn't think he can stand it. He breathes out against Malfoy's soft lips, his arms spread out against the back of the sofa, fingers gripping the cushions. 

"God, you're beautiful," Harry whispers, and he's on the edge already, with just the touch of Malfoy's hand and his prick and Christ, Harry doesn't know how he can breathe any longer because Malfoy's pushing against him, straddling him, his long hair falling over his cheek, brushing against Harry's face with each slow movement of Malfoy's hips. 

"You're mine, Potter," Malfoy says, his voice breathy. "I don't care if Durant had you here in this fucking city, or anywhere else. You're mine now."

"Yes," Harry says, letting Malfoy drive him absolutely wild with his firm, commanding strokes. "I'm yours." Entirely, Harry wants to say. With all my heart. With everything I have. I'm yours. I belong to you. 

Instead he exhales, caught in the angry heat of Malfoy's grey gaze. "You can't get rid of me now."

"Good," Malfoy says, and his hand speeds up, Harry's foreskin slipping wetly along the length of his shaft, and as they both rock into Malfoy's tight grip, Harry loses control first. With a loud groan, Harry's shooting spunk all over Malfoy's belly and his wrist, Harry's hands gripping the back of the sofa hard enough to leave temporary indents in the upholstery.

Malfoy draws his hand away, one arm braced against Harry's shoulder, pinning Harry to the sofa, as the other flies over his prick. Harry's body's still wracked with shivers of pleasure as he watches Malfoy wank himself, quick and fast and gasping. Malfoy's body stiffens and he cries out, spurts of spunk smearing across Harry's belly. 

"Jesus," Harry chokes out, deliciously thrilled with the animal nature of Malfoy's possessiveness and the sense of being marked by him. Malfoy slumps against his shoulder, and Harry lets his arm come up to hold him gently.

"Fuck, you feel good," Malfoy says into Harry's collarbone. He presses his mouth against Harry's skin.

Harry laughs, his chest rumbling against Malfoy's skin. "I could say the same about you."

"But as tempting as it is to leave you drying with my spunk, I think we'd better clean off," Malfoy says against Harry's shoulder. Harry can't help but agree.

Harry hooks his arms under Malfoy's arse, and lifts him whilst standing up from the sofa. Malfoy barely makes a noise of protest; he wraps his legs around Harry's hips. Harry walks to the other side of the suite, where the views are even more amazing, the curtains pulled wide to let in the light from city and the moon.

"Here," he says, dropping Malfoy onto his bed, still unmade from the morning. "You can also see the East River from this side." Harry goes into the en suite and fetches a flannel, coming back to clean Malfoy off, then himself. He drops the damp flannel on the floor, suddenly tired. He'll take it back to the en suite later.

"Is this your subtle caveman way of asking me to spend the night?" Malfoy's mouth is curled in amusement as he looks up at Harry. 

"Was I subtle?" Harry smiles, hoping Malfoy'll say yes, knowing he won't. "Dammit. I'm a Gryffindor. We don't really do subtle well."

Malfoy shakes his head, then leans back on his elbows, long and pale in the moonlight. Harry's heart clenches uncomfortably in his chest--he's sure Malfoy has no idea how beautiful he looks. If Harry weren't so tired, he'd want to spend hours worshipping Malfoy's body with his mouth. "That's all right, Potter," Malfoy says, holding out one arm. That's why you have me."

Harry crawls onto the bed, lying down next to Malfoy gratefully. 

They don't speak but their bodies nestle against each other under the soft white duvet--the night is close and the buildings enormous around them, like a giant, fairy-lit forest of unimaginable size.

***

It's bright and warm when Draco wakes up; his limbs are pleasantly heavy and he feels refreshed. It takes him a moment of consciousness to realise that he's wrapped like an octopus around Potter, his hips pressed up against Potter, his legs interlaced with Potter's, his arm thrown over Potter's broad chest. Draco closes his eyes in mortification. He's usually not one for cuddles, but he craves Potter's touch. And he rarely indulges himself likes this. It feels amazing, he thinks, but it's much too close for what he and Potter are to each other. Or perhaps not?

Draco remembers pushing Potter down last night onto the sofa and how much he'd enjoyed it, how willingly Potter had let him push him around. Draco's cheeks heat. He'd been so fucking jealous, so angry still at watching Potter with Durant all day, He'd wanted to fuck Potter, to make him watch New York and Brooklyn where his sodding ex was right there, right then, where they'd lived together, whilst Draco brought him off with a cock up his arse, reminding Potter exactly whom he was with now. They didn't make it past the sofa, at least not to do anything more than sleep, but it'd still been bloody damn satisfying nevertheless. Draco's glad he got up his nerve to knock last night--his sexual frustration hadn't been helping his sense of dislocation, of being lost in New York. He feels much more grounded this morning, even with the skyscrapers all around him.

"You awake?" Potter's morning voice is gravelly and rough, and it goes straight to Draco's prick which is nestled, half-hard, against the firm, soft skin of Potter's arsecheeks.

Draco shifts his hips, trying to press less obviously into Potter, and feigns a yawn. "Yeah," he says with exaggerated languor. "What time is it?" He rolls onto his back, away from Potter's body. There's plenty of space. Christ, he'd chased Potter almost to the edge of the bed and American hotel beds are enormous as it is. Draco loves the sensation of space here, even as it's disconcerting.

Potter rolls up on an elbow, leaning over him, and Draco's cheeks warm. Potter's dark curls are sticking up, and his green eyes are sleepy, and fucking hell, but Draco wants to pin him down and have his way with him again. Potter's skin is golden-tan against the white sheets, and the lovely, toned muscles of his chest look perfect in this light. It's very bright, perhaps mid-morning Draco thinks. He worries for a moment they've overslept, but then remembers that it's a holiday.

"It's only eight," Potter says with a lazy smile. "We've plenty of time for a run through Battery Park, if you'd like."

"Or we could fuck," Draco suggests, his cock filling at the prospect. If he's going to exert himself, he wants more of Potter's delicious golden skin which is half-hidden by the hotel sheets.

Potter bites his lip, giving Draco a heated stare. "Or that."

At that moment, Potter's mobile bleeps from the bedside table with a text message alert. Draco gets a glorious view of the long muscles of Potter's back and the taper of his waist with the ridges of his hips. Merlin, Potter is powerfully muscled. He looks like he punches cement for training, Draco thinks, and then possibly benchpresses Muggle automobiles. Draco's no idea how heavy they are, but it sounds very hot to him.

"Or we could go down to breakfast where everyone else is waiting for us." Potter's face is amused, but regretful. "Our absence'll be more noticeable now that Parkinson's texted."

Draco resists the urge to swear. "Fine," he says, knowing that if they don't go down, Pans'll come up, and Draco just doesn't want to deal with that at all. With a quick nip to Potter's jaw, he pulls himself out of bed. Potter's gaze is hot on his back as Draco pads to the next room to find his clothes. Draco's cock is almost fully hard, but there's no time for that now. He has to tuck it in and go dress for breakfast.

He loves Pansy, but right now she can fuck off to hell.

When Draco goes back into his own room, he finds his mobile on the desk with a message from Blaise that says, "Coming to breakfast, old man?"

Hell can take both of his friends, Draco thinks with a sigh.

Draco grabs a pair of trousers and a shirt and grooms himself into some approximation of decently dressed, then goes out to the lifts. Potter's waiting already in a navy polo shirt and denims with a well-worn set of trainers. Draco purses his lips, knowing it's not his place to make Potter buy new trainers, but wanting to do so anyway. The man's so fucking gorgeous, Draco thinks, and then there's his clothing at times. Still, Potter didn't have parents to buy him new clothes, Draco thinks belatedly, and he actually feels sorry for Potter's horrible style sense. This maudlinity will never do, he thinks. When he glances over again to Potter, he sees that Potter hasn't healed the bruises Draco left last night, and he's suddenly terribly happy. He reaches out and brushes a finger along the love bites down Potter's throat.

Potter doesn't say a thing; he just catches Draco's hand and lifts it to his mouth, pressing his lips against Draco's palm. 

The lift dings and Draco pulls his hand away, reluctantly, just before the doors slide open. Potter just smiles and follows Draco into the lift, an older couple shifting aside to make room for them. 

When they come into the hotel dining room, the rest of the team are seated. Draco has his hand on an upholstered chair, about to pull it out and sit down, when Althea says, "Christ, Parkinson, is that why you told me I didn't want to be on the same floor with them?" She's looking up at Potter's mottled throat, an amused expression on her face.

Potter stops, the chair next to Draco pulled out. Draco stills for a moment, the edge of the table digging awkwardly into his thighs. Then Draco shrugs, and sits. He tries to look bored and has no idea if he succeeds. His face feels hot. Potter sits beside him.

Pansy laughs. "Yeah. Exactly. Although you could have healed some of the bruises, guv."

When Draco looks over, Potter's face is flushed red, almost the shade of the Gryffindor pyjama trousers he'd worn last night. Well, Draco thinks. He had wondered how long it would take for Althea to figure things out. 

Blaise is giving them an uncharitable little smile whilst sipping at his coffee. "You're welcome, all of you," he says. "Trust me, there was a reason I put them on their own floor. I had to listen to Malfoy shriek enough at Hogwarts. Even when he was on his own."

Everyone looks over to Draco, who shrugs, gesturing for a menu. Pansy hands one over. "I seem to recall a certain orgy in our first year of training…" His eyes fall back on Blaise's face. It's something that they never mention, not unless they're very drunk, but it's all Draco has right now.

"Fuck off," Blaise says lightly, but there's a sharpness to the words.

Pansy shakes her head slowly. "Draco." He picks up the warning tone in her voice.

Althea sighs. "As amusing as this all is, I think the parents at the next table are going to have heart attacks if we start educating their children with details." She nods meaningfully over a young Japanese couple with two children, aged about two and five, who are seated two tables away from the team. They're obviously not paying attention, and the rest of the restaurant tables are relatively sparsely occupied.

Potter nods, clearing his throat. "I suppose this is an intelligence gathering trip, so well done, all of you." He glares at Parkinson, who shrugs and takes a bit of her pancakes

"Wasn't me who let it slip," she says mildly. "Despite what you're thinking."

"How many times," Althea says, a bit petulantly, "do I have to remind everyone that I passed my fucking sergeant's exam with flying colours, so it's not out of the realm of reason I could put two and two together myself?" She frowns. "Especially when you're not bloody hiding anything, the two of you." She waves her fork between Potter and Draco. "You're both shit at covert operations, can I point out?"

"I was top of my training year," Potter protests.

Althea gives him a look. "Only because you're Harry Potter."

Draco snorts behind his menu. "I'm starting to warm up to you, Whitaker."

"Speaking of covert operations." Blaise motions again to the loitering waitstaff, who finally send someone over to take Potter and Draco's orders. "Do we know what Graves was on about yesterday?"

With a frown, Draco examines his menu. The listed prices are outrageous, even by London standards. Draco orders a well-overpriced omelette and coffee, grateful that this meal is on Potter's expense account. Out of the corner of his eye, he see the couple with their children get up to leave. Whilst Draco watches, the little boy drops a pink stuffed animal, and his older sister retrieves it from under the table, shaking her finger at him to be more careful. Draco smiles. 

Potter places his order, then takes a sip of the water the waiter left. "No. We don't. And I'd be surprised if we find out anything before Thursday."

"Can't you just firecall Granger?" Parkinson asks, licking a dollop of butter from her fork.

"Perhaps this is where we have a quick security discussion." Potter glances around at the near-empty restaurant section. He lowers his voice, and they all lean in. "The only place where we can even begin to talk securely through firecall is from MACUSA, and all of that traffic is reviewed by Graves' team as well. Mobiles are terribly easy to intercept, so don't think for a moment that several American intelligence services--Muggle and magical--aren't listening in. They've got new technology that scans for codewords."

Draco raises an eyebrow. He'd been prepared for some of this, but the intricacy of it surprises him. "So there's no way to securely reach Britain without American intercept?"

Potter shakes his head, glancing at him. The intensity of the expression on Potter's face makes Draco's heart skip a beat. He tries to keep his mouth shut and not look too affected. His prick is still hopeful, and he wills it to settle.

"No. Not even from the British wizarding embassy," Potter says. "Not entirely. You all need to be very careful what you say via firecall or mobile, and also make sure that no one is listening around you. No details in public." Potter sits back, eyes scanning the room quickly again. "This is a country at war, and they're taking their national interests very, very seriously."

"Why do they care about magical communication?" Althea asks. "If there's a Muggle war on, and the communities are so separate."

Potter shrugs. "Because it's not that simple. As you can tell from where we are, the MACUSA headquarters was right near the Muggle attacks in 2001, and they affected everyone. The degree of cooperation since that time has been unprecedented, even for countries with a stronger degree of magical and Muggle cooperation like Britain." 

Althea nods. They all know that. There are three Aurors embedded in Downing Street right now, not to mention Justin Finch-Fletchley, who's working for Tony Blair's policy team. "So if I ring my dad?" she asks.

"Just don't talk about work and you'll be fine," Potter says. Althea relaxes back in her chair.

Draco blows on his coffee. "So what do we do today, since there's really nothing going on?"

As he hopes, this starts a conversation as everyone on the team chimes in about plans and things to do and whether or not to find a place to watch the fireworks from this evening.

When he looks over at Potter, the heat in his eyes is undimmed. Draco has a distinct sense that his day is going to be full of Potter and not much else.

That's bloody fine with him.

***

When Pansy comes up the drive from the little arrival area that Daisy's portkey had brought her to, the large, grey-shingled house is already buzzing with activity. There's some sort of band playing outside on the patio, and white paper lanterns line the driveway to the front door. It's still hot, even at the shore, and Pansy hopes her simple white shirtwaist-style dress with thick, strappy ivory sandals isn't wrong for the occasion. She hasn't been to one of Daisy's parties recently, and she knows very little about Daisy's current set here in New York. She's very impressed, however, that the house Daisy rented this summer is right on the beach--Eustace and Daisy are doing very well for themselves, evidently.

Pansy can't help but feel a twinge of jealousy. She's nowhere near affording a shore rental anywhere. Not on her current pay packet. 

Daisy welcomes her in a vibrantly hued maxidress at the door. "You made it," she smiles, her arms coming around Pansy for a quick hug. "I wasn't sure you were coming. Let me look at you." 

Pansy shrugs and holds out her small clutch, letting Daisy see the plunging neckline of the body and the angular, buttoned folds of the side. "What do you think? Too much?"

Daisy's face is glowing with affection. "Not at all. It's perfect on you. Gaultier?"

"For Hermès," Pansy grins. "Mother picked it up for me in Paris." Most of Pansy's clothes come from Camden stalls or Gladrags or Topshop when she's in a pinch, but Camilla does send generous contributions to Pansy's closet from time to time. Usually as a bribe for something she wants Pansy to attend. Frankly, Pansy'll let herself be bought off by designer clothes if she needs to be.

Daisy gestures to the back lawn where knots of young, beautiful, and important-looking wizards and witches are standing around with luridly colored cocktails or glasses of champagne in hand. "The patio's out there through the sliding doors. Drinks are at the bar, or I can ask the staff to make you something else if you like."

"I'm sure I'll be fine with whatever's available," Pansy grins. Her older sister's concern for her makes her feel like she's twelve again and should be asking for hot cocoa instead of a cosmopolitan. It's not unpleasant, but it's more unexpected these days with Daisy in New York. "Where's Eustace?"

Daisy grins. "Out on the lawn, talking about business with his friends. Where else?"

"I'll go say hello," Pansy says. She wasn't going to make a point of it, but the look of gratitude on Daisy's face tells her she made the right choice. 

Guests come up the walkway behind her, so Pansy moves out of the entrance, taking her time to look through the house a little before going back out onto the patio. It's a beautiful house, traditional on the outside and well-manicured, with calm, grey modern furnishings on the inside. It's only a rental, Pansy knows, and from friends. Daisy and Eustace aren't quite at the point of buying their own yet, but she expects it's not too far down the line if their stake in the Parkinson business continues to go well.

For a moment, looking out over the view from the sitting room, Pansy wonders what it would be like to live her sister's life. If she were the one hosting a party like this, with a husband out there talking to his business cronies. If she were in the kitchen with concerns about the black tied garbed staff's efficiency and whether the guests would like the crabmeat canapé foremost in her mind. Pansy knows from her mother and older sister that these parties don't throw themselves, that the details take weeks to get right. Technically, Daisy started with the planning for this rental, which must have been at least a year ago, and more likely two. Pansy's impressed with her older sister, but she can't imagine having a life like this. She'd rather coordinate dead bodies and plant samples, ta ever so, and worry more about the WPS being able to use her evidence efficiently than about the effect of any catering choice she's made. Besides, people make her so bloody tired at times. She honestly doesn't know how Daisy does it. Pansy's fairly certain she'd hex someone to death if she had to host an affair like this, and Draco and Blaise would have to smuggle her out of the country.

Pansy makes a detour to the mirror in the corner to check her red lipstick surreptitiously, making sure there's not a smudge on her white teeth, then she goes outside to greet her brother-in-law, a semi-authentic smile plastered to her face. She can handle this for a little while, she thinks, and then she'll go back to the hotel, take off all her clothes, throw her bra into the corner and slide into a hot, bubbly bath. Preferably with a glass of wine from the lobby bar in hand.

"Pansy!" Eustace smiles as she approaches, beckoning her to his little group. She leans in and kisses his cheek, smelling the whisky he's drinking on his breath. She doesn't want to know what business she interrupted, either. He's happy, she thinks. And Daisy's happy. That's all that matters. "Everyone, this is my sister-in-law, Pansy." Eustace gestures at some of the well heeled, sunburnt figures surrounding him. "Jeff Nagle. Brian Flynn. And you already know Dmitri, I think."

Pansy looks back at the small, ironic smile on Godunov's face. He's waiting to see what she does, she realises, whether she'll mention the last time they met or not. She smiles broadly, in an approximation of her mother's best social smile. There's no goddamned way in hell she's bringing up that brouhaha at the Leaky. "Of course. Dmitri and I met in England last month." She gives him an even look, daring him to say anything differently.

Godunov raises a glass at her. "Indeed. At your mother's charming party." 

"He's quite a dancer," Pansy says. She doesn't know what's come over her, but she has a strong sense she's got to get this right. For everyone's sake. When in Rome and all that.

"Shame there's no dancing here," Godunov gives her an appraising glance. She nods thoughtfully in response. There's an undercurrent between them that she's not certain of yet, but neither is he, from what she can tell.

Eustace glances down belatedly at Pansy's empty hands. "But you haven't a drink yet." And he's had one or two too many already, Pansy thinks. She makes a note to let Daisy know as soon as she can. Her sister might need to run interference on her husband. 

Godunov swiftly drinks the dregs of his glass. "I'll go," he says with another look over to Pansy that makes her pulse flutter. Damn, but he's a charming bastard, she thinks. Even if he's a swine who swans about with scum like Nicholas Lyndon. "It wouldn't do to let the lady be without liquid refreshment, and I'll pick up one for myself as well."

"Let's go together." Pansy says swiftly. She knows that he'd fetch it for her, if she asked, but Pansy wants to go with him anyway. She likes to be in charge of her own bloody drinks, particularly around men like Dimitri Godunov, and she also doesn't know what's on the bar. Also, it won't hurt to show that she's not afraid. She isn't, she thinks. Not here. Not around Daisy, who's always been her protector, as best she can, ever since Pansy was small.

"Well, then." Godunov offers her his elbow, and with a quick prayer to heaven, Pansy interlocks her arm with his. They make their way across the patio, Pansy remembering how authoritative and smooth he was on the dance floor. If she were the sort of woman who found that impressive, she might be attracted to him. As it is, she just wants to step on his toes. Literally and metaphorically.

As they're waiting in line behind a group with summer dresses and linen suits, Godunov leans in. He smells like wine and lemongrass with the faintest musky undertones of a soft, very expensive patchouli. "I was worried you hated me after our last encounter." His eyes are a bright blue and his chestnut hair is a bit longer and streaked with gold in the light.

Pansy shakes her head. "Not at all," she lies. Draco and Potter may be pants at covert operations, but Pansy certainly isn't. "I didn't know how to apologise for Draco. He's so…" She waves her hand, letting him fill in the word. She's curious as to what he'll say.

"Spoilt? Unreasonable?" Godunov watches her from close range. "An unmitigated horror?"

Pansy bites back her sharp retort. "Oh, I was going to say aristocratic, you know. But that works." She smiles easily, mentally adding to Godunov's list of negatives that he fucking dared insult Draco. But his eyes are very blue at this distance and they crinkle appealingly at the corners, and she really shouldn't be flirting with him, even if it's just to find out who the fuck he truly is. Tony's warning about him still echoes in the back of her mind, making her uneasy. She belatedly realises her arm is still entwined with Godunov and she disentangles herself, stepping back a bit, grateful to have her hand back.

Godunov just looks amused.

When they get to the front of the line, Godunov gets another glass of wine, and Pansy asks for a vodka gimlet. She's glad to have a moment to think whilst he waits for the barman to hand over the drinks. She's still worried about what Tony'd said, but she doesn't know that she can listen to him professionally. She's also thinking of the guv and his warnings about secrecy. A part of her does wonder how Godunov is related to their current case and what Tony supposedly knows, but again, she reminds herself that she is off-duty. Well off. 

And Tony's not here. 

Godunov greets a few people, and Pansy realises he's giving her a chance to escape. She doesn't want to seem easy, so she scans the patio for a moment, recognises no one, and then decides to walk toward the water. Late afternoon is settling on the beach, moving closer towards evening, and several people seem to be having parties up and down the coastline.

She looks at the line of sand and the horizon where the water meets the shore. The air is salty and sharp, a light breeze blowing off the water, mussing Pansy's hair. She knows that Bridgehampton faces something like Portugal, not London, but she still feels like she's very far away from the proper side of the Atlantic. Her side. Home. She takes a sip of her gimlet, enjoying the lime and vodka burn of it in her throat.

"Penny for your thoughts," Godunov says from behind her right shoulder. He's smiling into the sun, not really looking at her, but Pansy can feel his attention on her. He's exciting in his own way, she supposes, and she thinks he's someone she would have found interesting two or three years back. She sips her gimlet and lectures herself about the wild behaviour of her past.

"I'm afraid my thoughts aren't worth that," she says lightly. "Perhaps a Knut, though. I haven't been to the shore in ages, and it's lovely to feel the salt breeze."

"I can see that." Godunov nods, shielding his eyes with his hand. He's silent for a moment. "Or perhaps you don't trust me with your thoughts, Miss Parkinson."

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean." Pansy smiles. He's sharp, a bit too sharp for her liking. She wonders what she's doing, socialising during a work trip, particularly with someone like Dimitri Godunov. Perhaps she shouldn't have come here after all, she thinks, but that would have broken Daisy's heart.

Godunov shrugs next to her. "I'm sure you do. But I wouldn't blame you, entirely, for being distrustful. I'm not the nicest sort. Although I'm a businessman, not a madman." He doesn't look at her. "I hope you keep that in mind, whatever you might hear about me."

Pansy tilts her head at him. "Oh?" She genuinely doesn't know what he's talking about, but she's sure she needs to encourage him. "Nothing wrong with business, is there?" She's Terry Parkinson's daughter through and through in this moment.

Godunov takes a sip of his wine, and Pansy feels like she's passed a test somehow. "No. There isn't. But it shouldn't be mixed with many things, including pleasure." He gives her an even, curious look. "Wouldn't you say?"

"I couldn't agree more." Pansy smiles. "So, tell me about the people at this party. I'd love to hear your thoughts on who's here. I'm so rarely in the States these days."

"Happily," Godunov smiles back at her, and she thinks he's relaxing his guard. She, on the other hand, has no damned intention of doing so. "Why did you say you were here again? Not just to see your lovely sister, I'm sure."

"I didn't," she says, lifting her drink to her mouth. "But you must know everyone."

Pansy lets Godunov guide her through the social intricacies, her mind buzzing. Tony's right, she thinks. There's something about this man. She's dead certain he's connected to their case, and if she knew more, she might know how.

She's resolved to find out.

***

Althea's sitting in the lobby of the Millenium Hilton, her mobile pressed to her ear. It's the only place she can get reception right now; for some reason every time she tries in her room, the line's all static and pops. Probably someone down the hall from her room doing magic, she thinks. It can't be Parkinson or Zabini. They're off today doing their own things. Althea's been wandering the city on her own for most of the afternoon, but now she's hot and tired and footsore, and she feels strangely irritated and alienated at the moment.

"Dad?" she asks, and she relaxes when she hears her father's voice. "Sorry it's so late for you, but I tried earlier and you didn't answer. Everything okay?"

"Stop worrying about me, love," Mitchell Whitaker says, in that gruff voice of hers that she loves. "I was just watching the footy with Arthur tonight and had the ringer turned off. He stopped by after work with a curry."

Althea slumps against the window in relief. "That's good. Really good." She'd been so worried that her dad would slip, that he might have gone down to the local for a drink to take the edge off his grief. 

Mitchell sighs. "Love. I'm working hard on it this time. I promise."

"I know." Althea watches a man go by with three dogs on leashes, all of them yapping. She can barely hear them through the thick glass. "It's just…" She hesitates. They don't often talk about it, the two of them. It's been nine years almost and the grief's still so damned overwhelming. "Mum, you know? The second of August--"

"It'll be nine years," her father says, his voice quiet over the mobile. "Yeah. I'm not going to fall down the hole, Thea. They're having me talk to someone here every other day. He's helping. It's not that I don't want a drink, but I think I'm stronger than I was."

Althea hopes that's true. She wants it to be, so badly, but she knows her father's struggling with a disease, and it's bloody hard sometimes. "I'm glad of that, Dad." She's quiet for a moment, then she says, "I'm fucking proud of you."

Mitchell chuckles, and it's warm and soft, and it sounds so much like the father she'd known before her mum was killed. "Back at you, love." There's a silence, then the line pops again. She thinks she's lost him, and then he says. "Arthur told me you're going after one of the bastards what took her down."

That surprises Althea. She hadn't mentioned what she was doing to her dad when she'd rung him on Sunday to let him know she was going to be out of town. "I don't know that he ought to have told you that," she says. 

"I'm glad to know." Mitchell coughs; it's muffled, so she knows he's pressed his arm to his mouth the way he'd always taught her to do when she was little. "It helps," he says, coming back to the line. "Makes me feel a bit like she's looking down on both of us. Cheering you on."

"You also," Althea says, and her voice catches. 

Mitchell laughs again, softer this time. "Kicking my arse, more likely. She'd be narked off at me if she could see me now."

"Dad--"

"That's a good thought, love." Mitchell draws in an unsteady breath. "Timothy--that's the lad I've been talking to lately, the one the home's brought in--he says it gives me something to focus on, yeah? Thinking about your mum and what she'd say to me. Helps me keep my head above the waterline some days." He falls silent, then he says, "I fucking miss her still."

Althea's throat feels tight and raw. "Yeah. Me too."

"I know." Mitchell coughs again, and his voice sounds thick when he says, "I haven't been a great dad these past few years."

"Lies." Althea leans her head against the glass of the window. She looks out on the construction site across the street, the big gaping hole in the sky where it's so obvious something is missing. "You're a brill dad." And he is when he's dried himself out. No one could ask for a better one, she thinks.

Mitchell doesn't say anything for a moment. "I'm sorry, baby girl. I'm going to try to do better, yeah?"

"Dad--" Althea's heard this before. She wants it to stick so badly this time. She misses her father when he slides into the drink. She wants to believe him, but she's not certain she can.

"No, I mean it." Mitchell's voice takes on a determined tone. "I love you. I'm proud of you."

Althea's eyes prickle, hot and wet. "I love you too." 

They fall silent. They've had this conversation before. Althea thinks they will again, as much as she wants it to be different this time. 

"I am proud of you too, you know." She whispers the words into the mobile. "I know it's not easy."

Mitchell sighs again. "I know, Thea. I know."

Another stretch of quiet pops across the line, and then Mitchell says, "It's late, and you've things to do, yeah? Arseholes to catch and that sort of thing."

"Yeah." Althea can't help her soft laugh. She loves her father dearly. She misses him. "I'll ring again in a day or two? Check in?"

"I'll be good, love." Mitchell sounds firm. "You do what you need, yeah?"

They say their goodbyes, and Althea rings off, folding her mobile and sticking it back in her trousers pocket. She presses two fingers to the bridge of her nose and tries not to cry. She ought to be home with him, she thinks. It's not fair that she left Maxie to look after him. She's his daughter. He's her responsibility. 

"Althea?"

She drops her hand, trying to pull herself together as quickly as she can. Zabini's just come through the revolving door, and he's standing there in front of her, a plastic bag filled with bottled water in his hand. "Hey," she manages to get out, but she can feel her facade slip. It's just been too much, lately, and she doesn't know what she's doing. Not any longer. She can't keep control, and she feels as if she's going to implode if she keeps trying. 

"Come on," Zabini says, and he bundles her into the lift, zipping them both up to the thirty-second floor with the press of a button. He doesn't say anything, and Althea presses herself into the corner of the lift, the thick gold rail digging into her back as she tries her best to stop her eyes from leaking. She hates being like this, hates showing her weaknesses, and it makes her so fucking angry with herself.

The doors slide open, and Althea says, "I'm fine, really," but Zabini's having none of it. He pushes her past her room and into his, and when the door closes with a thunk behind them both he looks over at her. 

"What's going on?"

Althea sits on the edge of his unmade bed. "I'm a twat?"

"That's a given," Zabini says lightly, and Althea manages a wet laugh. "Is your father all right?"

"For now." Althea nods and she wipes the back of her hand across her damp eyes. "I'm just being an idiot."

Zabini sits on the edge of the bed next to her. He sets the bag of water down on the floor. "You ought to talk to Draco," he says after a moment. "I know you two have your issues, but his father has problems with drink too. Different reasons, but I suppose the why doesn't matter as much when you have to deal with the actuality of it."

Althea hadn't known that. "Oh," she says. She feels like a shit. She's been an arsehole to Malfoy for years, and maybe she's had her reasons, but she'd never stopped to think that he might have his own problems. He hadn't been a real person to her, not until recently. He'd been a symbol, a reminder of what had happened to her mum, and Althea's starting to think that maybe life and people are a bit more complex than that. 

"He wouldn't want to talk to me," she says after a moment. "I've been horrible."

Zabini gives her a faint smile. "I don't know. He managed to get past his problems with Potter, and they'd hated each other for longer than the two of you."

"Sex helps with that," Althea points out, "and I'm not shagging Malfoy."

Zabini laughs. "I think he'd be all right with you not doing that."

They sit there for a moment, then Althea exhales, dropping her hands between her thin thighs. "I don't know what I'm doing here," she says finally. "You all hate me; I ought to be home with Dad--"

"Bollocks." Zabini pulls a water out of the bag at his feet and opens it, handing it over to Althea. "We don't hate you, and your dad's going to be all right. Or maybe he won't, but it's not your responsibility to fix him, you imbecile. It's his, and you can only do so much." 

Althea takes a sip of the water. It's still a bit cool, and it feels good against her throat. 

"Look," Zabini says. "I'm not leaving you here all night to drive yourself mental in the hotel. Jake's having a party at his place, and you're coming with me."

"I haven't been invited," Althea protests. "That's rude."

"And he's American." Zabini stands up. "They're all rude, but charmingly so most of the time, and I don't think he'll give a damn. Besides, you need to be around people, and Pans is off with her sister, and fuck only knows what Draco and Potter are getting up to. Best we not think about it, I say. So you're coming with me. It'll be like a cultural exchange. We'll go gawk at the Yanks in their natural habitat and cluck about how uncivilised they are, and they'll think we're bloody hot for doing so because they all love the accent."

Althea's surprised to find herself laughing. "Are you always like this?" She lets him pull her up. "A force of nature sweeping away everyone in your path?"

"It's a fairly accurate description," Zabini says with a wink. "Now go take a shower and put some decent clothes on. You look like you've been sweating for hours."

She has, actually.

Zabini opens his door. "Forty-five minutes," he says, "and I'll meet you downstairs at the Apparition point."

And then Althea's out in the hallway, wondering what the hell just happened. Still, her spirits are lifting, and she doesn't feel as fragile as she had ten minutes ago. She's starting to like Zabini, she thinks, and she doesn't know that she would have thought that before she came on to Seven-Four-Alpha. 

With a lighter heart, she heads for her room. 

She has a shower to take, after all.

***

Jake's building is a narrow brown sandstone building on Dean Street in Boerum Hill, Brooklyn, at the end of a long row of red brick Georgian townhouses that look as if they could have been part of working-class London street. Thick black iron bannisters line the high set of steps leading to a double wooden door, arched frosted glass inserts set into them both, and terra cotta pots filled with bright red and pink geraniums and pansies are scattered along the edges of the steps.

Blaise steps through the heavy wrought iron gate, Althea at his heels. He doesn't head for the steps; Jake had told him to go beneath them, past the thick green foliage and lush pink roses in pots on the stone pavers that make up the front garden. There's another black wrought iron door tucked beneath the brownstone steps, beside an open window from which jazz is echoing, along with the sound of voices and what Blaise is fairly certain is Jake's laugh. 

The wrought iron door's half-open, as is the shiny black wooden one behind it, but Blaise knocks anyway before going through. He's been raised properly, after all. 

"Come in," Martine Boucher shouts from inside, and Blaise pushes the door open. The flat's larger than he expected, all dark, polished wooden floors and white walls hung with brightly coloured lithographs and matted black and white photographs, some wizarding, some Muggle. Two steps take him and Althea from the foyer with its small bench and pegged board for coats into the long, narrow sitting room that at first glance seems filled with people. 

It's not, though, not really. There's Martine with a few women, one of them Espinoza, curled on the sofa and in the two large armchairs in front of the hearth, a telly mounted on the wall over the mantel, playing some sort of muted film at the moment, and then a handful of men scattered about, either standing together or straddling slatted chairs in the open, arched French doors between the sitting room and what Blaise assumes is Jake's kitchen. 

"Blaise," Jake says, and then he's coming out from the back of the flat, wiping his hands on a tea towel. "Good to see you." He holds out his hand, and Blaise takes it, all too aware of Martine watching them. 

"Thought I'd bring Althea, if that was all right," Blaise says, and he gives Jake a look, hoping he'll understand. He thinks he does.

Jake reaches out to Althea, as well. "Glad you made it." He gestures back towards the kitchen. "There's beer and sodas if you want. Might have some water in the fridge as well. Feel free to take what you'd like." He lowers his voice. "Careful with the gin. Martine's girlfriend makes it herself, and it has a bit of a kick."

"A damn fine one," Martine calls out, and then she's waving Althea over. "Come sit with us." Althea gives Blaise an uncertain glance before she makes her way over to the sofa, sitting gingerly on the edge beside Martine. She shakes her head when Espinoza offers her a beer; Martine gives her an even look, then Summons a ginger ale from the kitchen, nearly taking off a bloke's head in the process. 

"I keep telling you, learn to duck, Murphy," Martine calls out, and half the flat laughs. The other half winces, and Blaise suspects they've all been hit at one time or another.

Blaise glances over at Jake. He looks good in a pair of jeans and a tight green New York Fwoopers Quodpot t-shirt stretched across his broad shoulders. His eyes are ridiculously blue, his hair impossibly mussed and yet still perfect. His large, well-formed feet are bare, and that's the point that Blaise has to glance away. "Nice place."

"It's home." Jake folds the tea towel and sets it down on a low, white bookcase filled with paperback novels, a good chunk of them of the more common variety. Espionage, Blaise notes, and historical fiction, mostly, with a few non-fiction titles thrown in. No pretensions of literary grandeur here, and Blaise rather likes that. 

He wonders how Potter fit into this oh-so-American flat. Badly, he wants to assume, but he's not so certain about that. Potter and Jake had been together long enough. 

Blaise smooths a hand down the front of his thin, white linen shirt. He's left the first few buttons undone in an attempt to be casual, but he still feels a bit overdressed for this group. And he'd tried to dress down. He'd even worn a pair of artfully faded jeans, but they're not frayed and ripped the way Jake's are. He ought to have just nicked something from Potter's closet, but he'd never stoop that low sartorially, especially if he could get caught. Besides Pans and Draco would never let him hear the end of it. Draco in particular. Circe. 

"Want a beer?" Jake asks, and Blaise nods gratefully. He follows Jake into the kitchen, noticing that he's getting a few curious looks along the way from some of the other blokes. It's not that Blaise isn't used to being noticed, but these are blatant, frank glances, taking him in from head to toe, and by the time he makes it to Jake's small, gleaming white kitchen, he's feeling more than a bit uncomfortable. 

Jake uncaps a bottle of Brooklyn Lager and hands it to Blaise with an amused smile. "Sorry," he says. "I've a few friends who're on the prowl tonight and you're--"

"New?" Blaise takes a sip of the beer. It's different. Americans like their beer chilled, he remembers, and he's not certain he dislikes it, even if it tastes a bit weak and watery.

"I was going to say British." Jake leans against the apron sink. His hair's a golden halo against the light streaming in from the window behind him that overlooks a lush back garden. "But yeah." He takes a bottle of his own and knocks the cap off against the edge of the counter. "Tell them to fuck off if you want. They're New Yorkers, and we're a fucking pushy lot."

Blaise lifts the bottle back to his mouth. "Thought you were from Louisiana. Isn't that some place..." He waves his hand, his grasp of American geography slipping away from him. "Else?"

Jake laughs, warm and easy, and it goes straight to Blaise's prick. "It's down south. Almost fourteen hundred miles away." 

"Fuck," Blaise says. He can't imagine that distance, and that's not even the full length of the country, if he recalls right. "And here I thought Hogwarts to London was a long train trip."

"London to Athens, man," Jake says. "About the same for me to get home to Thibodaux. Not that I ever bother." A pained look crosses Jake's face, but he hides it by lifting his beer to his lips. "Fuck if I know how I know that."

Blaise settles against the counter, his elbow on the smooth butcher block. There's a toaster tucked against the wall, bright and chrome, along with a coffee pot and little else. He's not so certain Jake cooks, if he's honest, but why would he? He's not home that much, Blaise thinks. "You don't like home."

Jake sets his bottle down and crosses his arms over his chest. The jersey of his t-shirt pulls taut across his muscled shoulders and Blaise tries not to stare at the impressive, masculine swell of his biceps. "Home never much liked me," he says after a moment. "My dad ended up here in Oudepoort Prison for life when I was eight, and my mom died when I was twelve. My brother was already of age, so I got sent to live with my Aunt Eulalie in Shreveport, going to L'École Josephine de Beauharnais des Arts Merveilleux across town. No fancy Ilvermorny for me, and frankly, I think Aunt Eula was glad to see my backside when the Atlanta Hit Wizards recruited me just out of school. I was a bit of a shithead in school." 

This isn't something Jake's mentioned before. "You were a Hit Wizard?" Blaise doesn't really know how he feels about that, particularly given how fucked up the British crop are. 

"For three years. Got the tattoo to prove it." Jake pulls up the sleeve of his t-shirt to reveal a muscled bicep and a faded blue-grey tattoo of a winged horse with a lightning bolt in its mouth, the words _Atlanta 157_ in flowing script beneath it. The horse's eyes glow, and smoke comes out of its nostrils when Blaise touches it gently, Jake's skin is soft and warm beneath his fingers. Blaise gives into temptation and lets his palm cover the whole tattoo. Jake stills. 

"An Aethonan," Blaise murmurs. "You don't see those often." He drops his hand and looks at Jake, who's watching him almost without breathing. 

Jake looks away, and a flush spreads across his face. He lets his sleeve drop back down. "Regimental mascot," he says, and his voice is thick. "I thought about getting it removed, but I had friends from that time who went down in Afghanistan a few years back."

"So it's a memorial now," Blaise says, and Jake nods. 

"Hated being a Hit Wizard," he says. "Not the guys I served with. We were young and stupid and cocky, and I was glad to leave that culture behind, especially when I realized I was queer." Jake shrugs. "American wizardkind still struggle with that particular little foible."

"Not all British wizards are keen on it either," Blaise says. "But I suppose we're a bit more tolerant of buggery on the whole."

Jake smiles and reaches for his beer. "Grand English tradition?"

"Thank Merlin for Oscar Wilde," Blaise says. "Even if the poor bastard broke the Statute of Secrecy a thousand times."

Someone calls Jake's name from the sitting room, and Jake rolls his eyes. "Come back in with me," he says, "and I'll introduce you around. Just watch out for Kevin. He's sweet when he gets drunk, but he's also a little handsy."

Blaise trails after Jake, surprised when he sees Althea leaning towards a young blonde woman on the sofa, obviously flirting with her. He catches her eye and lifts his beer in salute. _Well done_ , he mouths and she flips two fingers his way, but she's laughing. She looks a hell of a lot better than she did back at the hotel.

Three beers later, the party's thinned out and Blaise has outrageously and deliciously flirted with half the men there, all the whilst watching Jake from the corner of his eye. He's not certain, but he thinks Jake hasn't liked it, judging from the way his mouth's gone tight or his knuckles pale around the smooth glass of his bottle. Blaise had even got the mobile number for one of them, a short but charmingly bespectacled bloke name Elías who'd told him he worked the MACUSA Department of Transportation. 

Althea's gone already, leaving bright-eyed with the young blonde she's been attached to most of the night, and good for her, Blaise thinks. At least someone other than Potter and Draco will get shagged tonight. Blaise is fairly certain Kevin'd be more than willing to take him home too, and for the briefest of moments he considers it, but Jake's right. Kevin's a bit too handsy even for him, so he foists him off onto Martine who helps poor Kev Floo home.

Blaise makes his way out to the back garden and onto the wooden patio covered with green plants and comfortable benches. The scent of cigarette smoke drifts through the dusk, and Blaise sees Jake leaning against a railing, a fag in his fingers, the tip glowing orange-red. 

"Hey," Blaise says, and he walks over, the tread of his shoes against the patio planks loud in the quiet of the garden. 

Jake just looks over at him and exhales a thin stream of smoke. "Get bored with Kevin?"

"Not really my type," Blaise says, and he reaches over and plucks the cigarette from Jake's hand. "Too handsy." He takes a drag off the fag and breathes it back out. "Didn't know you smoked."

"Bad habit that I give into sometimes." Jake takes the cigarette back. "Usually when I've had too much to drink."

"Like tonight?" Blaise turns and leans against the patio railing, propped up on his elbows. He knows he looks good like this, long and lean in the evening light, the paleness of his shirt setting off the deep rich shades of his skin. 

Jake's gaze slides down Blaise's body, his breath hitching. He looks away and his hand trembles ever so slightly when he lifts the cigarette back to his lips. "Something like that."

Blaise shifts closer. "I think Althea's shagging one of your mates tonight."

"Lucy." Jake's mouth quirks up on one side. "I noticed. Hope she figures out how to make it in tomorrow morning. Luce lives on Long Island."

"I think she'll manage." Blaise watches Jake's long fingers stub the cigarette out against the railing before he Vanishes it with a snap of his fingers. "Wandless. Nice."

Jake snorts. "Party trick. It's about all I can do without a wand." Blaise raises an eyebrow, and Jake shakes his head. "Stop."

"I'm not saying anything." Blaise lets his fingers brush the hem of Jake's t-shirt. Circe, he's had too much to drink, really, and he knows it. But he's been so damned randy for days now, and Jake smells like beer and cigarettes and sex, and Blaise wants him. Desperately. He drops his hand and steps away, trying to clear his head at least a little. "It's nice out here."

"Mrs Kim likes to garden," Jake says. At Blaise's questioning look, he adds, "My landlady. She lets me use the patio."

Blaise looks around at the spill of bright flowers and glossy green leaves. It smells divine, like roses and something sweeter. "I like it." He can hear the splash of water from somewhere, the soft trill of birds in the shade of the trees above. "I never knew New York was so green." It's still warm out here, and Blaise's shirt's sticking to his back. He's not used to the heat of the city; London gets hot, but not like this.

Jake steps back from the railing, walks over to sit on one of the benches. "Brooklyn is. We take our trees seriously." He looks around. "I'm fond of this place."

"You must have missed it in London." Blaise watches him. This pash he has on Jake Durant unsettles him. It's an itch he wants to scratch and be done with, to know what the man feels like raised over him, his prick buried deep in Blaise's arse. Or the other way about if he prefers. Blaise has never cared how he gets off as long as he does and both parties find it equally delightful. 

And it's been so fucking long since Blaise has had a good shag. He'd grown bored with pulling one night stands; he's wanted more of a challenge. And then Jake Durant walked into his hospital room six weeks ago. Fuck, but Blaise knows this is stupid of him. There's a code after all. No shagging a friend's ex, and as much as Blaise tries to tell himself Potter doesn't fall into that category, the fact of it is that he might, at least a little. If nothing else, Potter's his guv and his best friend's shag, and then there's the little issue of Jake working with Blaise's mad grandfather, as if that's not going to bugger things up immensely.

Still. 

Jake's just watching him. "London was all right," he says, and there's something in his eyes that makes Blaise push himself off the railing, walk over to Jake. 

"Just all right," Blaise murmurs, and he nudges Jake's denimed knees apart with his own, squatting between them. 

"Yeah," Jake says, but he's barely breathing. Barely moving. "Jesus, Blaise--"

Fuck it, Blaise thinks, and he leans forward, catching Jake's mouth with his own, his hands settling on Jake's thighs, keeping himself balanced. Jake makes a small, quiet sound, and then his hands are cupping Blaise's face, his thumbs smoothing across Blaise's cheeks as their mouths move against each other, teeth catching lips, tongues pressing and sliding, claiming.

Blaise loses himself in the kiss, and he's so fucking hard already that he's shuddering, his whole body leaning into Jake's touch. He can feel the swell of Jake's prick against his chest; his fingers dig into Jake's thighs. He wants, so badly, so much, wants everything, needs it, and he's shaking, his palms flattening against Jake's jeans, and it's almost too much. 

Jake pulls back, breathing hard. His eyes close; his mouth is wet and swollen. "Blaise," he breathes out, and Blaise tries to lean in again, tries to kiss him, but Jake's hands drop from Blaise's face to his chest, holding him back. 

"We can't," Jake says, and his eyes flutter open. They're blue and clear and filled with regret. 

"Oh, we can," Blaise says. "We fucking can." 

But Jake's shaking his head, and Blaise knows Jake wants him, can tell that it's taking everything Jake has not to pick Blaise up right now and carry him to his bed. Blaise knows that look. He's seen that look. He's given that fucking look.

"I've been in your head," Jake says. "That's all this is. A false intimacy--"

"I'm pretty bloody sure it's not false," Blaise says, but Jake just looks at him, and Blaise sinks back on his heels. 

Jake licks his bottom lip. Blaise wants to take it between his teeth, to worry it, to make Jake gasp and beg and arch against him. "It's unethical," Jake says quietly "I can't."

"But you want to." Blaise studies Jake's face. "I'm not misreading here. Tell me that at least."

Jake laughs, and it's a bitter and quiet sound in the lengthening shadows around them. "You're not."

Blaise nods. A flicker of hope settles deep inside of him. "All right then. There's that."

"It's a terrible idea." Jake's watching him, regret etched into his face. "I've already made enough of those. I'm not interested in a rebound--"

"Neither am I." And Blaise realises he means it. His mouth is still burning from Jake's kiss; his body feels like it's on fire. 

Jake's fingertips brush over Blaise's cheek. "Bad timing, Zabini."

"Maybe." Blaise isn't certain he buys into that bullshit. He can tell by the softness of Jake's touch that he wants Blaise. Maybe tonight's not the night, but Blaise hasn't any intention of giving up. There's something here, and he'll wait if he has to. He knows that now. 

"You should go before I change my mind," Jake says, and there's something raw and wounded in his voice that makes Blaise's heart stutter a bit. 

"What if I don't?" Blaise asks, and Jake looks away. 

"I'd rather you did," Jake says, his voice low. Almost unintelligible. Blaise hesitates, and then he stands, letting his body slide up between Jake's thighs, making certain Jake sees the swell of his prick against his jeans. 

"Bad timing then," Blaise says. He reaches down, brushes his knuckles against Jake's jaw. "Doesn't mean it'll be that way forever."

"Maybe," Jake says, and there's a faint quirk to his mouth. 

Blaise leans down and presses his mouth against Jake's. Quick. Hard. Almost angry. "Later," he says against Jake's lips, and then he pulls back, turning on his heel and walking away. 

He feels as if he's leaving part of himself back there on that garden bench. 

The kitchen is bright and warm when he walks back in. Martine looks up at him from the glasses she's stacking in the sink. "Everything all right?" she asks, and Blaise just shrugs and gives her a small smile. 

"For now," he says, then he hesitates. "I'm going back to the hotel."

Martine's gaze drifts towards the back door. "Jake?"

"Might need to talk," Blaise says.

She nods. 

Blaise doesn't know what else to say. He leaves her there, looking out at the back garden, making his way back towards the street. He stands on the pavement beneath a linden tree, his hands shaking, his entire body screaming at him to go back, to kiss Jake senseless, to make him see what an idiot he's being. 

He fights the roil of the Veela inside of him, cursing whatever ancestress brought this into his blood. If he wanted to he could go back. He could walk into the garden, he could make Jake give in, make Jake carry him into his bed. He could have what he wants. Right now. 

And he won't. 

That's not how he wants this to go. 

With one last glance back at the window behind him, warm and shining against the shadows of the street, Blaise shoves his hands in his pockets and walks away, his shoulders hunched, a deep unhappiness settling on him. 

It's the only thing he can do, and he damned well knows it.

***

Draco looks over as Potter takes his hand, his fingers sliding between Draco's. They're walking down Smith Street in Brooklyn, Potter having insisted Draco let him take him out for dinner.

"What the fuck are you doing?" Draco demands, but Potter's hand grips his when he tries to pull away. 

"No one knows us here," Potter says. "It's New York, you idiot. They don't give a fuck if I'm me and you're you."

Draco realises Potter's right, and that's an odd feeling isn't it? He lets himself relax into Potter's touch, lets himself notice how few people are even paying attention to them as they walk down the street, hand in hand, their fingers loosely entwined. A faint breeze ruffles his hair, and Draco feels something stirring inside of him, warm and bright and happy almost. 

There are American flags fluttering from lamp posts and buildings which seems almost surreal to Draco. It's as if he's stepped into a different reality here in New York, one in which he can be someone else, someone who can hold Harry bloody Potter's hand in public as they walk down the street to a restaurant Potter assures him he'll love. 

Who the fuck knows, Draco thinks. The way things are going, he actually might. 

It feels good to walk along with Potter like this, Draco thinks. He looks over at Potter, who's cleaned up a bit in his tight, faded black jeans and his untucked button down white shirt, open at the throat, and his black Chelsea boots. "Are we actually going on a date?" Draco asks, nervous as to Potter's answer. "Or this just dinner because no one else we know is around and we might as well hang out together?" 

Potter laughs and lifts Draco's hand, kissing his knuckles. "I thought a date, unless you'd rather not?" He sounds happy, but there's a tinge of uncertainty in his voice, as if he's worried Draco might object.

Draco's both pleased and terrified by the idea. "I suppose." He can still feel the warm press of Potter's mouth against his skin. It surprises him that no one's given them a scowl yet, or even a sideways look, particularly given such an open display of affection on Potter's part. Draco's always been careful about such things, whether in wizarding society or Muggle. Potter, on the other hand, doesn't seem to give a damn. 

Fuck, but Draco finds that bloody attractive. 

Mas Picante is a small, storefront restaurant between an estate agent and liquor store, and when Potter opens the shiny black door, a burst of cool air spills onto the street, along with the smell of spices and slightly charred meat. Draco's stomach rumbles; he's hungrier than he expected.. After an hour on the treadmill in the hotel's fitness centre, Draco'd spent most of the afternoon sprawled in Potter's bed, lazy and dozy, looking out over the city from the forty-ninth floor as Potter'd flipped through the MACUSA intelligence files yet again, sharing them with Draco, who'd just nodded and yawned and pretended he was paying attention when really he'd just been enjoying being curled up beside Potter, smelling the musky scent of him. They hadn't really bothered with food that much, although Potter'd gone out for crisps and coffee at one point in the afternoon whilst Draco napped. He'd woken Draco up with a latte-flavoured kiss that'd been slow and easy. 

Until it wasn't.

"Harry!" A small, rotund man with a balding head throws his arms up and comes from around the bar, making his way through the crowded tables. "It's good to see you again, my man."

Potter claps the man on his shoulder. "Gabriel. Thanks for fitting us in." 

"For you, always. You call, I'll make a table." Gabriel gives Draco a curious look. "But no…" He glances back over at Harry and mouths _Jake_.

"No." Potter looks extremely uncomfortable. "Just my friend and I."

Draco gives him a sharp look, and Potter shrugs as Gabriel reaches for menus, leading them back through the filled restaurant and past the kitchen. Draco's not entirely certain where they're going until they step out into a garden filled with a mossy brick patio and heavy wooden tables, each covered with a bright orange umbrella. A tiled fountain splashes in the corner, stone planters filled with green bushes around it, and white lights gleam from the top of the fence that surrounds the garden. It's pretty and it's quiet, with only two of the tables taken. 

Gabriel puts them in the corner, away from the others. "You want margaritas?" he asks. "Robbie's on the bar, and he's got a heavy hand with the mezcal."

"Two, please," Potter says. "On the rocks with salt." He looks at Draco. "You've never had one, yeah?"

Draco shakes his head. "No?" 

Potter grins and looks up at Gabriel. "We'll start with some guacamole too."

"Got it, boss." Gabriel walks away, his black apron flapping around his ankles. Draco glances back at Potter. 

"So." He rests his elbows on the table. "Jake."

Potter has the grace to flush. "I know Gabriel because Jake and I came here a few times, yes. But the food's really good." 

Draco just eyes him. "And how far are we from your ex's flat?"

"Four blocks west?" Potter gives him a faint smile. "I told you we were going to Brooklyn. It's what I know best, other than the Financial District around MACUSA, and you saw what that's like today. A bloody barren wasteland. The Americans take celebrating their independence from us seriously. It's like Bonfire Night and Boxing Day all rolled into one, but with more alcohol and a concerted effort to set everything on fire."

"You're still a fucker," Draco says. "It's not done to take someone on a date your ex might show up to."

Gabriel's back with the drinks before Potter can answer; he sets them down, along with a bowl of guacamole and tortilla chips. Draco's had those before at a gastropub that fancied itself more gastro than pub. He hadn't been overly impressed. "Ready to order?"

Draco waves his hand at Potter. "Pick for me."

Potter glances down at the menu. "Right. I'll take the chicken-stuffed chili relleno and for Draco…" He hesitates. "I think the carne asada might be a good choice." He looks up at Draco. "Steak, basically."

"I gathered from the _carne_ ," Draco says, handing his menu back to Gabriel. He waits until the man's gone again before picking up his margarita and taking a drink. His eyes nearly water. "Holy Circe's tits," he sputters, and Potter laughs. 

"You'll get used to it." Potter raises his own glass. "Smaller sips."

Draco tries again. The drink's salty-sour-bitter, but it settles on his tongue, coating his lips. He licks them. "I like it."

Potter leans back in his chair, watching him. "Yeah?" The smile he gives Draco is slow, and Draco can't tell if it's the margarita or Potter that's making his stomach feel soft and warm.

Draco props his chin on his fist. "So."

"So," Potter says, with another smile. He lifts his drink to his mouth. 

"No work talk," Draco says. "I spent all bloody afternoon trying to ignore you, and frankly it's utterly cruel to make me listen to your theories about where to find Dolohov when the rest of the sodding team gets a day off."

Potter nods. "All right." 

They sit quietly for a moment, then Potter reaches over and tucks a lock of Draco's hair behind his ear. 

"I like seeing your smile," Potter says, and Draco feels his cheeks warm. 

"You're an idiot." Draco lifts his glass again, and Potter just watches him, an inscrutable look on his face. 

Draco reaches over and takes a tortilla chip, dipping it into the guacamole before putting it in his mouth. The taste surprises him, grassy and clean with a hint of heat. "That's good," he says.

Potter laughs. "It's one of the things done well over here." He dips one of his own and pops it in his mouth. "Try it with the margarita."

It's divine. Draco leans back in his chair. "All right. I won't complain too much about you taking me to your ex's restaurant."

"Unfair, given that it's not his," Potter says, but he gives Draco a small smile, and Draco's heart clenches. He looks away. 

It feels like a date, sitting here like this, and it's not something Draco ever thought he could have with Potter. They fuck, it's brilliant, that's it. He's not certain what to say, sitting here clothed, the table between them. Draco feels a bit awkward, a bit uncertain. 

"So Althea's figured us out," he says, and he winces. That's a conversation starter there. He bites his lip, lets it pop out from between his teeth. Potter blinks at him, slow and careful, and Draco's stomach flips a little. 

Potter takes a sip of his margarita. He's stretched out in his chair, long and muscular and Circe, but Draco wants to crawl into Potter's lap and suck at the point where Potter's jaw meets his throat. It's stubbled and sharp, and Draco has to take a tortilla chip with trembling fingers to keep himself from getting up and going over to him. 

"Does it bother you?" Potter asks. "I don't think she cares that much."

"Surprisingly," Draco says through a mouthful of guacamole. "Pans says she's more disapproving of you than me, so I count that a win."

Potter grimaces, then takes another drink. "I suppose she was bound to find out."

How could she not, Draco thinks. All he has to do is look at Potter, and the whole world seems to know exactly what he wants. Exactly how he feels. It's bloody humiliating. His one relief is that Potter's too fucking oblivious to see that Draco's arse over tit in love with him. That's the last thing Draco wants him to know.

Draco just says, "I suppose." He wipes his hand on the napkin in his lap. A breeze rustles through the tree above them. It's nice out here, warm without being too hot, the shade of the tree and the umbrellas keeping the sun at bay. There's a fan rumbling near the door, sending cooler air their way with each sweep it makes across the patio. Draco's sleeves are rolled up; he doesn't care who sees his scar today. No one here knows what it is, what it means. He likes that, actually. 

This feels almost like a holiday, a reprieve from the tension of the Ministry. Draco knows that'll change once MACUSA has them actively going after Dolohov, but for now, he can almost imagine that he and Potter are here by themselves, not on official business, but because they want to spend time together, away from the others. Away from work. 

Not that they'll ever have that chance, Draco thinks. But he can pretend for a night, and perhaps that will last a lifetime. 

Draco wonders what would happen if he told Potter how he feels. If he leaned over and whispered _I think I love you_ in Potter's ear. He won't. He can't. But he wants to. Far more than he's comfortable with. 

He looks away. 

"I'm jealous," Draco says instead.

Potter leans forward, his muscular shoulders shifting beneath his shirt. "Of?"

Draco meets his gaze. "I think you know," he says, reaching for his margarita. The drink's going to his head a bit, making him feel warm and soft. 

"Jake," Potter says, and Draco lets his shoulders rise in a small shrug. "Why?"

"Oh, come on," Draco says. "You're not that thick, Potter."

Potter catches Draco's hand and strokes his thumb over Draco's knuckles. "I want you to tell me," he says, his voice soft, and a shudder goes through Draco's body. "From my perspective, you've nothing to worry about."

Draco turns his palm up, lets Potter's fingers twine through his again. It feels decadent, outrageous, sitting here like this in public where anyone could see them. His breath is quick, a little anxious, until he reminds himself they're thousands of miles away from anyone who would give a damn. "I'm so different," he says after a moment. "I'm not him."

"I don't want you to be," Potter says. His eyes are so green and bright behind his glasses. Draco wonders if Potter knows how beautiful he his, how he takes Draco's breath away. "I'd rather you be yourself."

"He's what you wanted," Draco says. "For two years."

Potter traces the lines of Draco's palm with his thumbnail. "On and off." He takes a slow breath, then lets it out. "I don't think he and I were meant to be serious, if that's what you're asking."

"You moved here for him." Draco meets Potter's gaze. "That's not something one does lightly."

"Unless one's running away from everything else." Potter doesn't look away. "I didn't want to be in London. Or Luxembourg, really. I didn't know what else to do. Where else to go."

Draco shifts, but he doesn't pull his hand from Potter's. "And now?"

Potter's quiet for a long moment. "I met this bloke," he says. "Maddening, gorgeous, sexy as goddamned hell. Contrary like you wouldn't believe, but so worth it."

A small smile quirks Draco's mouth. "Did you."

"Yeah." Potter's fingers are soft against Draco's wrist. "And I shagged him, and I moved away. And then I couldn't get him out of my head, yeah?" His thumb slides up over Draco's scar, featherlight. "I wanted to. I thought I ought to, seeing as how I moved here to be with someone else. But I'd wake up at night, and I'd have dreamt of him, and what it felt like to kiss him."

Draco can barely breathe. "Yeah?"

Potter gives him a small smile. "I came home for him. Even though I didn't know if he'd have me."

"He'd be a fool if he hadn't." Draco's almost whispering. 

"Would he have?" Potter's leaning closer, his body shifting towards Draco's. 

All Draco can do is nod, and then Potter's lips are brushing his, soft and warm and it's everything Draco's hoped for, everything Draco's wanted, sitting here beneath the warmth of the setting sun, kissing Potter without any care as to who might see them. 

He's shaking when Potter pulls back. 

"You're not a fool," Potter says quietly. "You never have been."

Draco can't say anything; his throat's so tight, so painful. He reaches out and touches Potter's face, then he drops his hand, looking down at his almost empty drink. He draws in a rough, ragged breath, and then he manages to say, "You're such an arsehole, Potter."

He means _I love you._

Potter just smiles, almost as if he might understand, and he lifts his glass. "Another round?" 

"Yes," Draco says, gratefully, and he sinks back in his seat.

Harry Potter will be his destruction, he thinks. He's not quite certain he gives a damn.

***

Draco follows Potter into the lift at the hotel, then lets Potter pull him close to kiss him, Potter's body pressed against his, his arms wrapped around Potter's neck. Potter tastes like mezcal and lime and sweat, and Draco wants to drop down to his knees and blow Potter right here. He's not sure what it is, but his desire for Potter has been higher than he thought possible since their halting, lovely dinner beneath the trees and orange umbrellas and shining white fairy lights.

They'd walked most of the way back, up along the Brooklyn Bridge Promenade, pausing several times for Potter to press Draco up against a railing and kiss him, the East River to Draco's back, Potter's hands drifting up and down Draco's body. Draco's never quite felt like this, never let anyone kiss him in public, much less bring him to the edge of gasping, trembling want. Being here with Potter, not caring who sees them, who notices, is a fucking aphrodisiac, Draco thinks, and they'd finally had to Apparate across Manhattan, both of them hard and aching. 

Draco had only made Potter drop his hand right before they entered the hotel lobby.

And now Potter's leaning back against the burnished wood side of the lift with Draco pulled up against him, his tongue pressing against Draco's as they kiss, slow, careful, his finger twisted in the belt loop of Draco's trousers to keep Draco close. As if Draco's going anywhere. Draco's knees are wobbly, and not just from the speed with which the lift ascends to the forty-ninth floor. When the lift stops and the doors slide open, Draco peels himself reluctantly from Potter. 

He already feels debauched, and they aren't even in the room yet. If Potter asked him to fuck him in the hallway, Draco'd likely let him. He's that turned on and unapologetic about it. Also he suspects the margaritas had something in them that completely destroyed his inhibitions. He would tell Potter anything right now if he asked.

Well. Almost anything.

Draco walks quickly down the carpeted hallway, Potter following behind. Draco's grateful not to meet anyone else on the way to Potter's corner suite; his prick's already swollen against the flies of his trousers. When Draco stops outside the room, Potter reaches over him to insert the card into the door, his hard cock pressed against the back of Draco's arse, and really, Draco needs to be naked yesterday. Fuck but they both do.

"Jesus," Potter whispers, and he presses his mouth against the nape of Draco's neck. "I want to fuck you."

A shudder of pure want wracks Draco's body. "Please," he says.

The door opens, and they stagger inside, Potter grabbing Draco's hips and Draco unbuttoning his shirt. Manhattan is bright in the windows, enormous, glittering buildings, tall and dark against the night sky, and the East River and the lights of Brooklyn behind them, filling all of the walls. Potter'd left the curtains wide open, and all that Draco can see is water and light, skyscraper and night. The scale of the city is immense spread out beneath them, and the beauty of it takes Draco's breath away. This is New York, shining and luminous and _alive_ , and Draco thinks perhaps, in some way, he might one day fall in love with it too.

Potter pushes Draco against the high window ledge in the sitting room, rutting against his arse. "It's gorgeous, isn't it?" he asks against Draco's jaw, and Draco knows he's looking down at the city as well.

"Incredible," Draco murmurs, and then Potter's turning him around, his fingers pulling at the buttons of Draco's shirt. 

"Like you," Potter says, pushing Draco's shirt open and running his palms flat along the muscles of Draco's chest, before he shoves it off Draco's shoulders, pulling it from Draco's arms. It lands somewhere behind Potter, on the sofa or the desk or the floor, Draco doesn't know. He doesn't care.

And Draco's trying to unbutton his trousers whilst Potter sucks bruises into the skin of Draco's neck. His cock springs free, and the trousers slip to the floor, over Draco's hips, down his thighs. Draco kicks them aside. He'll worry about getting them clean later. The wood of the ledge is smooth against Draco's arse as he sits on it, his thighs spreading wide to take Potter between them.

"Jesus fuck. Did you go commando the entire evening?" Potter's face is wrecked, his expression so heated and raw that Draco swears he could come just from seeing Potter look at him like this.

"Yes," Draco says with a roguish smile. "I don't like the line of those trousers when I'm wearing pants."

Potter wraps a hand around Draco's hip, pulling him across the ledge towards him. "Christ, Malfoy. You're going to be the death of me." Draco rather suspects it'll be the other way round. Potter kisses Draco furiously, all teeth and tongue and soft, keening sighs, and Draco wraps his arms around Potter's neck, his leaking prick pressing into the placket of Potter's jeans. 

"You need to take your sodding trousers off," Draco says when Potter pulls back. "Now." Draco's gasping, and the lights of the city are so bright, spilling through the window across his naked skin, lighting up the soft planes of Potter's face. Draco spares a thought for the office workers in the buildings opposite who might be able to see them, but then thinks, well, it's a bloody national holiday so that's unlikely. And if they're being watched, then who the fuck cares? They're on the forty-ninth floor of a New York hotel where no one knows them, no one gives a damn that they've walked through the streets, their hands entwined, stopping to pull soft, warm, perfect kisses from each other's lips along the way.

The room's lit only by moonlight and the light from the buildings around them, and there's something so bloody intimate, so bloody magical about this moment that Draco can barely breathe. He reaches up and pulls Potter's glasses from Potter's face, folding them and setting them aside on the ledge before cupping Potter's face in his hands. "I need you," he whispers, and he wants to tell Potter how he feels, wants to say he loves him madly, desperately, but the words stick in the back of his throat.

And so Draco kisses Potter instead, letting his mouth open beneath Potter's, giving himself up completely to the heat of Potter's body against his. "Please," Draco whispers against Potter's lips, and Potter gasps softly. 

The sound goes straight to Draco's heart.

"Malfoy," Potter murmurs, and he keeps a hand on the small of Draco's back, unbuttoning his jeans with the other and pushing them to the floor with a bit of help from Draco's heel. Draco tucks fingers under the elastic of Potter's pants, working them down past the curve of Potter's muscular arse, and then Potter pushes them all the way off. Potter's fantastic, thick prick is against Draco's thigh and Draco thinks he might come here and now, just from the feel of it.

Potter lets Draco help him out of his shirt and then they're both naked, and Draco leans back with his hands behind him, palms pressed against the smooth wood of the ledge, the cool glass of the window against his shoulders, looking at Potter. "Hi."

Potter smiles, slow and easy and promising. "Hi." He brushes his knuckles against Draco's jaw; Draco turns his head and presses his lips to Potter's hand. Potter breathes out, and Draco wants him so badly he's shaking.

 _I love you_ , he thinks again, but the words still catch, and Draco closes his eyes, catching his lip between his teeth, before letting his lashes flutter open again. His heart feels as if it might implode, it's so full and open and bloody frightened of this all. 

Potter's just watching him, "You okay?" he asks softly, and Draco nods. He's not, but he will be. Maybe. He hopes.

"Could you?" Draco makes a motion with his hand that's supposed to encompass preparatory spellwork and possibly anything else needed to get Potter as deeply inside of him as he can. Draco lets his hair fall in his face because the request makes him feel strangely shy, exposed, and Potter inhales sharply.

"Sure." Potter concentrates and casts the spells without his wand, and Draco can feel the emptiness of his belly, the cool brush of air against his arse. His whole body tingles. "Is that good?"

"Did you cast a numbing spell?" Draco shifts his hips. "Because that would be bloody brilliant."

"I thought perhaps after this afternoon you might appreciate it." Potter's smiling at him, and Draco shivers, thinking of the way he'd ridden Potter, his knees pressed into the mattress, his back bowed, his prick heavy and bobbing between them.

Draco licks his lip. "I can't ever get enough of you," he whispers, and Potter makes a soft noise, pressing his face into the curve of Draco's throat. 

"Promise you won't leave me," Potter says, his voice muffled, and Draco cards his hand through Potter's hair. "Not right now. I couldn't bear it."

"How could you think I would?" Draco asks, his voice quiet, and he feels Potter relax against him, Potter's body trembling into his. He thinks for a moment of the transfer papers lying in the post box back in his flat. It'd been a momentary idiocy, Draco thinks, taking those. He can't walk away from Potter. It would rip him apart.

Potter turns his head, catches Draco's mouth with his. The kiss is so gentle, so featherlight, a quiet, easy huff of breath against Draco's lips that feels like an invocation. 

When Potter pulls back, he's looking at Draco with soft, dark eyes. "Can I?" he asks, and his hands slide up Draco's thighs, pressing them wider. "You're not too pissed--"

Draco laughs and drapes his arms over Potter's shoulders. "Potter," he says, and his voice is full of warmth and affection. "I'm hard as a fucking board. I'm fairly certain I'm not too pissed to tell you I want you to fuck me. Desperately. Madly. Wildly." He kisses Potter again. _I love you,_ he thinks once more, and he draws in a ragged, unsteady breath. "Please," he whispers.

"All right." Potter shifts closer, speaks the summoning spell, and the lube thwacks into his outstretched palm.

"You wanker," Draco says with a laugh. "You know what wandless magic does to me."

Potter just gives him a wide smile and pours lube into the palm of his hand, oiling up his fingers before sliding them down beneath Draco's heavy bollocks, pressing them into Draco's already aching hole. It doesn't take much to get Draco ready; the spells have mostly done that, but Draco loves the feel of Potter's fingers sliding into him, twisting gently to open him wider. 

"Fuck," Draco says, and then Potter's fingers are gone. Draco braces himself on his outstretched hands and waits as Potter lubes himself and adjusts for angle. Potter hikes one of Draco's legs higher, wrapping Draco's leg above his hipbone, and then Potter guides his prick to the exposed cleft of Draco's arse. Draco leans back to give him a better angle, inhaling when he feels the thick head of Potter's cock press into him. It burns and Potter's enormous and it's bloody goddamned brilliant. Draco shifts the tilt of his hips, trying to give Potter a better angle, and he's rewarded with several inches of Potter's fat prick sliding inside him.

"Oh Christ, you are fucking amazing," Potter says, looking down to where their bodies are joined. "You look so fucking incredible on my prick."

Draco looks up at him, his face hot, his breath catching at the raw expression of want on Potter's face. 

"Merlin," Draco whispers. "You feel amazing splitting me apart like this. I love it when you fuck me."

 _I love_ you. _I love_ you. _I love_ you.

His whole body's singing, burning, aching for Potter, and when Potter pushes forward with his hips, Draco can feel his body breached by Potter's prick as he slides deep within. It's almost too much. Draco is gasping and trying to keep his arms under him as Potter holds his leg up and pumps his hips into him. The angle is bloody marvellous, and Draco's sure he'll feel this tomorrow, deep inside, and perhaps even longer. The thought makes him shudder. He wants to feel Potter's cock, wants to remember this moment, wants to think of it every time he moves, every time he sits. Still, he's grateful for the bit of numbing Potter cast. It makes it easier for him to arch his back with a shout as Potter starts rocking into him in earnest.

There's a deep boom, and then a flash, and suddenly the room is alight with white-gold explosions. Draco jerks, momentarily disorientated, stunned by the strangeness of it.

Against his shoulder, Potter laughs in delight. "It's the fireworks over the East River. They do it every year on the Fourth."

Another burst of light fills the room, a deep blue this time that shines and shimmers across Potter's gorgeous face. Draco gasps as Potter presses deeper into him, and he's never experienced anything like this, Potter's prick filling him, thrusting, lifting him higher as the deep booms reverberate through the night sky.

Draco feels the explosions swell in his chest as he turns his head to look over the river at the brilliant, enormous flashes of light. Red, blue, pink, white, orange, green. Over and over and over again in shimmering, sparkling pinwheels that rip apart the darkness, setting it aflame with colour. The rhythm of Potter's hips and the sound and flash of the fireworks fuse until Draco's not sure where his body ends and the magical night sky over the East River begins. It's all fluid and flowing into one, and Potter's calling out his name. Draco thinks he must be shouting, his mounting pleasure is so intense, but the noise of the explosions over the river are loud, riotous. He's dumbstruck and awed, shattered and alive, and Potter's face is gold and blue and every colour in the light streaming in through the window forty-nine floors high.

Draco feels like he's flying.

There's a lull in the noise and then explosions start happening again, one after the other. Potter thrusts hard, and then harder, and Draco comes apart with a cry, pushing his body into Potter's and bracing with his elbows as his hips shudder and jerk. He arches his back, his whole body taut and then spunk spatters over his stomach as flashes of red, white, and blue light strobe across his pale, bare skin.

"Oh fuck, Malfoy, did you--" Potter looks down at Draco, his eyes wide and bright and unfocussed, and then his face contorts, his fingers digging into Draco's arse, and Draco can feel Potter's prick explode like a firework inside him, leaving waves of shuddering wetness in its wake.

"Potter," Draco says, and then Potter's kissing him again, a slow, gentle meeting of teeth and tongues as the lights continue to flash over them in a kaleidoscope of colour that fills the room. It takes several minutes for them to pull apart, and then Potter says a cleaning spell and picks Draco up, carrying him to the bed. 

They lie across the rumpled white duvet, silent and still, wrapped around each other, their hands entwined, their bodies curved together, watching the sky light on fire over the shining river and tall buildings around them.

Draco's never dreamed it could be like this. With anyone. Ever.

But then again, he's never been in love, has he?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, you can subscribe to this fic for chapter updates, or you can subscribe for series updates [here on AO3](http://archiveofourown.org/series/661862) or follow me [on tumblr at femmequixotic!](http://femmequixotic.tumblr.com).
> 
> Chapter Six will be posted on Saturday, July 8!


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Jake receives an unexpected phone call, Godunov is a slimy bastard, and Pansy actually wants to throw a cauldron at someone.
> 
>  
> 
> **Chapter warnings for emotional turmoil, family complications, and nauseating domesticity. Um. At times.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is coming to you from New York! Again! Noe and I are on the longest "short" vacation to Brooklyn ever. It's been great to have some writing time where these events are set. Your comments have been amazing--you are such astute readers. I'm honestly amazed at how you intuit things that I didn't think I'd expressed yet.
> 
> Many thanks to sassy_cissa, who deserves so much love (and all the rainbow bagels by 2Day Air)! Noe helped pull off our hotel moves, and all of you readers inspired EVERYTHING with your ideas, your love, and your thinky-thinky thoughts.
> 
> I feel like I should warn you that this chapter is hard. For everyone. *sits on hands* But stick with it!
> 
> *drops 38.5K and runs*

It's almost six in the morning when Jake's phone rings, startling him out of an already fitful sleep. He sits up, the sheet falling from his bare chest, grabbing for the cell vibrating and shrieking on the night stand before it falls off. He's still half-drunk from last night and the beers he and Martine had gone through before they'd both fallen into his bed. To sleep. Nothing else. To begin with, that's just goddamned gross, Jake thinks. Even if he were inclined to sleep with women, which he's not, it'd be like fucking his sister or cousin or whatever. He does have some damn morals, thanks. And if that weren't enough, Martine's girlfriend Angie would fucking rip his head off if he touched her, and Jake knows it. She's a bartender over at a Williamsburg wizarding club and had to work last night. She's probably only just crawling home herself.

Martine's rumpled head appears above the grey and white comforter, her hair sticking straight up in places, indentations from the pillows creasing her cheeks. "Answer ton crisse de cellulaire, tabarnak d'ostie." She slaps at Jake's shoulder; his skin stings. 

"Jesus, Martine," Jake gets out through his thick throat. He flips the cell phone open as he swings his bare legs out of the bed, his boxers bunching up over his thighs. "Durant here." He coughs, his mouth feeling fucking disgusting. 

"Pichouette!" A Southern accent Jake knows all too goddamned well echoes down the line. "How things?" 

Jake's shoulders slump. "Eddie." He feels the bed shift as Martine sits up behind him. "What the hell do you want? Do you know what fucking time it is--"

"I do," his brother says, then he falls silent for a moment. Jake looks back at Martine. She's already on her feet, reaching for her shoes at the end of the bed, her shoulders pale against her dark tank top. She'd ditched her jeans at some point, and her ass is up in the air in boxers of her own.

 _I'll get the sobering potion_ , she mouths when she straightens up, and Jake nods. She disappears down the hall into the bathroom.

"Ed?" Jake says, turning back to the phone in his hand. "What's wrong?" Jake wonders when he'll get used to this, to bailing his older brother out of whatever goddamned scrape he's gotten himself into now. Eddie's forty now, and Jake's been doing it since he switched from the Hit Wizards into the Auror force eleven years back. 

"Well, Pichouette," Eddie says, and Jake cringes again at the old nickname. His dad used to call Jake that when he was little because of his small size and his blond curls and the fact that his mother'd been hoping for a girl when he was born, and it'd stuck. Jake goddamned hates it. He always has, and Eddie knows it.

"Don't fucking call me that, you asshole," Jake says, not bothering to hide his annoyance. "Not if you want me to help you." Martine comes back in the room with a bottle of potion; she hands it to him and Jake takes a swig. She sits on the bench at the end of the bed watching him, an eyebrow quirked. Her hair's still standing upon one side, but she looks a bit more human. Jake can feel the potion starting to work in him as well. 

Eddie clears his throat. "Look, Jakey. It seems I'm in a small bit of tracas, you know what I mean?"

Jake pinches the bridge of his nose. "Fucking hell, Ed. What'd you do this time?"

"Wrong place, wrong damn time," Eddie says. "I got scooped up yesterday and they've thrown me in Greenpoint. I need you to come work a bit of that magic of yours, little brother."

For a moment, Jake thinks about leaving Eddie to it, letting him cool his fucking heels for a few days. But they both know he won't. Eddie's the last bit of family Jake really has; he doesn't spend much time down in Louisiana any more, and he won't go to Oudepoort to see his father. Hasn't in at least ten years. Maybe more. He sighs. "Goddamn, you son of a fucking bitch," he says. He's so tired of having to do this every few months. 

"Don't talk about Mama like that," Eddie snaps over the phone line, and Jake feels a little bit guilty. Not much though because he knows Eddie's manipulating him. His brother's good at that. He's a charming bastard when he wants to be and complete asshole the rest of the time. 

Martine puts her hand on Jake's shoulder. "You want me to talk to the trou de cul?"

Jake shakes his head at her. "Ed, I'll be down there when I can." He doesn't wait for his brother to answer; he just flips the phone shut and tosses it on the bed, then leans forward, his elbows on his knees and rubs his hands over his face. Early morning sunlight's starting to seep through the windows, pooling across the dark-stained planks of the floor. 

"You should just let him sit there," Martine says after a moment. "It wouldn't hurt him."

"The sooner I do it, the better." Jake stands up, and Martine's hand falls away from his shoulder. He knows she's watching him with that careful, dark gaze of hers, and he tries to keep his shoulders stiff. Martine knows too much about his family, he thinks, knows exactly how Eddie makes him feel. The shit of it is that his brother's a likeable asshole, which makes it harder for Jake to say no to him. Even when he thinks he should. And so he bails Eddie out of his messes, puts more Dragots in his Salem Twenty account when he needs it. Because that's what Jake's always done. He takes care of his big brother because fuck knows Eddie can't do it on his own. 

Martine just watches him as he goes to his closet and starts pulling out clothes. Might as well dress for work, Jake thinks. By the time he gets up to Greenpoint and goes through the hassle of having Eddie released on his recognizance, it'll be time to head over to Manhattan.

"Do you want me come with you?" Martine asks as Jake heads to the bathroom, his clothes in hand, for a piss and a quick shower.

Jake looks back at the door of the bedroom. Martine's standing now, muscular and tall, in her low-slung jeans and her black tank top, her feet shoved into a pair of unlaced red Converse high-tops. She'd do anything for him, he knows, and for a moment he considers it, thinks about letting her take charge, deal with his shit of a brother. Instead he sighs and shakes his head. "Go home," he says. "Check in on Angie before you have to be at work. Fuck knows she'll probably need a good sleeping draught after last night."

Martine gives him a half-smile. "If I know her, she's probably already taken one and crawled in bed, cursing the Fourth."

"As well she should." Jake leans his head against the door jamb. "I'll be fine. This isn't anything I haven't done before. You know that."

"You haven't been as fucking emotionally vulnerable as you are now either," Martine says bluntly. "Between Harry and this Zamboni--"

Jake doesn't want to talk about any of that. "Zabini," he says, letting his exhaustion show. "Martine, don't."

Martine sighs. "Fine. We won't talk about it But if your brother pushes you off that ledge you're perched on right now…" She trails off and shrugs. "I'll fuck him up."

She will. Jake knows that. He walks over and gives her a hug. "Go home," he says. "I'll be fine." He's not certain he will be, but what the fuck. He might as well act like he will. Fake it until you make it, yeah?

When he's out of the shower, Martine's gone, but there's a protein shake sitting on his kitchen table with a scrap of paper on which _drink me_ is scrawled propped up beside it. Jake can't help but smile. Martine'd hate it if he pointed it out, but she's fucking maternal to the extreme.

He drinks the shake, then dresses and heads out to the back garden to Apparate across Brooklyn to Greenpoint, a shabby industrial area between the BQE and Pulaski Bridge. Bars and nightclubs are starting to take over some of the empty warehouses, and a few of the Williamsburg hipsters are making their way north along the East River. 

But it's been a wizarding neighbourhood for as long as Jake can remember, mostly Polish immigrants from what he's been told, and Espinoza says her grandmother--a Kowalski--grew up there in a big wizarding family that may have had No-Maj roots back when such things just weren't done. Or admitted to, Jake thinks. There were always No-Majs in family trees. His own great-grandmother had been one.

The Greenpoint Auror Detention Facility is on Ash Street, just beneath the Pulaski in a low-slung, abandoned drill-bit factory. _Grunnings_ can still be made out in faded black paint on the side, half of it obscured by graffiti. Jake pulls out his MACUSA badge and presses it against what looks like a chain-locked gate, glancing around to make sure there aren't any No-Majs about. There aren't, but he can hear the rumble of a truck going up the bridge behind him. It takes a moment, but the door swings open, and Jake steps into a grim and grey hallway, lit by flickering fluorescent lights. His boots echo in the empty space, and he walks towards the end of the hallway, a dead end, seemingly with no way out. There's a small metal rectangle screwed to the middle of the pale grey cinderblock wall, and Jake lays his badge flat against it again, holding it still until the rectangle glows gold and a woman's voice drifts from above him. 

"Jacob Bouvier Durant, Unspeakable and Legilimens with the MACUSA Department of Magical Law Enforcement, Northeastern Branch, currently assigned to the Federal Bureau of Covert Vigilance. Badge number 59100354-Bravo-Fox-Tango. Please place your palm against the metal rectangle."

With a sigh, Jake does. He knows the security protocols are here for a reason, but goddamn they get annoying.

"Magical signature detected and matched to Jacob Bouvier Durant," the woman says again. "State your business."

"I'm here to speak with a detainee." Jake leans against the wall. "Edward Fontenot Durant. Brought in last night, I believe."

A door appears in the corner. "Please proceed to the guard desk," the woman says, and Jake hears the thunks of the locks. The door swings open, and Jake steps through. It's brighter back here, although the walls are also cinderblock. Still, they're painted a bright yellow, which is a little nauseating, but Jake prefers it to the grimness of the entry hall. 

He passes a bulletin board hung with MACUSA most wanted posters. Thank Christ Eddie hasn't hit one of those yet, Jake thinks, although his attention's caught by one featuring Antonin Dolohov. Jake's seen photos of the man, but there's something about this one, using a photograph that he knows must have come from the British Ministry. Dolohov's looking out at him with narrowed, dark eyes, his long hair caught back at the nape of his neck in a ponytail, his beard sharp and pointed. He smiles, all bright teeth and tight lips, and Jake can't suppress the shiver that goes through him. 

"We'll catch you, you bastard," Jake says under his breath. "Fuck if I know how, but we will."

"Durant!" A man's voice calls down from the hallway, and Jake looks over to see Billy Ogden hurrying towards him, a wide smile on his freckled, flushed face. "Been wondering when I'd see you again. Heard a rumour you were back from London."

"An obviously correct one." Jake shakes Billy's outstretched hand. He's always liked the man. Billy's been good to Eddie every time Jake's fucking brother's ended up here. "So I'm here for Ed," he says, unnecessarily, as he follows Billy around the corner to the guard desk. 

Billy gives him a troubled look. He rubs at the back of his bald head. "Yeah, I figured. It's just there's a bit of an issue." 

Jake raises an eyebrow. "Yeah?"

"We can't release him," Billy says, giving him an apologetic look. "Not even for you." He stops next to the guard desk and pulls out the visitor log. Jake's name has already been recorded; he takes the quill Billy hands him and scrawls his initials beside it. Billy tucks it back behind the desk. One of the other guards whisks it away; Jake knows his visit will be recorded in the MACUSA databases before he comes back out. "Thanks, Larry," Billy says, and then he turns back to Jake. "Orders from the team that brought him and the other one in. Their asses stay in holding until we hear from higher up."

"You can only keep him for seventy-two hours without a charge." Jake frowns at Billy, and Billy just shrugs. 

"I'm telling you what they told me, man." Billy motions for Jake to follow him down the hallway. "Fuck if I know what's going on. We couldn't even put him on the usual wing. He's in one of the V.I.P. cells." He looks at Jake, his mouth pursed. "As if Ed's dangerous. Jesus, half the time the poor bastard can't find his ass with both hands."

Jake doesn't like any of this. "Do you know what they brought Eddie in for?"

"They caught him in a raid near Brighton Beach yesterday," Billy says, and Jake's heart sinks. "Warehouse off Stillwell Avenue." Fuck, if Eddie's got himself mixed in with some bullshit of Dolohov's, Jake's going to goddamn kill him. And then resurrect him and kill him again. 

Billy opens a door Jake's never seen before, taking him not down the hall of holding cells he's familiar with, but down a flight of shadowed stairs. The corridor they end up on is greyer than the entry hall, and twice as grim. They go past a few barred cells--Jake catches a glimpse of a guy maybe a few years younger than him hunched on a bed in one, dirty brown hair falling in his face. He's thin and lanky with heavily tattooed forearms, and he looks up as Jake goes by, baring his teeth at him. 

"Whack-a-doodle, that one," Billy says, shaking his head. "Don't know what the fuck your brother was doing hanging around with him." Billy stops beside another cell and knocks on it. "Ed. You got a visitor."

A tall figure unfolds himself from the bed against the shadowed wall, broad-shouldered and narrow-hipped like Jake, but with their mama's dark brown hair, left a bit long for Jake's tastes. It curls over Eddie's ears and across the back of his collar, thick and heavy and a bit touselled from sleeping on the thin mattress. 

"Well, I'll be damned, Billy," Eddie Durant drawls, walking over to the barred door. "Pichouette showed himself up, didn't he?"

"Shut the fuck up, Ed," Jake says with a sigh.

Billy gives Jake an amused look. "I'll give you two a minute, but it can't be long. He's not supposed to be talking to anyone until they come to take his statement at nine." He starts back down the hall.

"Tell 'em they can suck my dick is what they can do," Eddie shouts after Billy, and he looks over at Jake. "Look, Jakey. I didn't fucking do anything this time. I was just hanging out, making a delivery and the next thing I know, the whole goddamn place exploded with your asshole people, and they threw me on the floor, hands behind my back. Wrenched my shoulder something good. See?" Eddie tries to roll his shoulder forward and grimaces. "I ought to fucking sue 'em."

Jake leans his head against the bars. The iron's cold against his skin. "Jesus, Eddie. What the hell have you gotten yourself into this time? You know what that raid was about?" At his brother's blank look, Jake breathes out. Goddamn, but Eddie's a stupid bastard sometimes. "Magical and No-Maj weapons, you shit for brains. That's what they were after." He doesn't bother to mention Dolohov. The less Ed knows about that, the better, Jake thinks. 

"Well, there weren't none there," Eddie says after a moment. "Not when I came by--" He clamps his mouth shut, his eyes going shifty.

"Eddie." Jake grips the bars with both hands. "If you know something, you better fucking tell me--"

"Not telling you a holy damned thing," Eddie says, and he has that stubborn look that he gets sometimes when he's about to make an asshole decision. "I need some leverage with someone who ain't you, Pichouette." He sounds almost regretful.

On occasion Jake realises his brother's smarter than he lets on. "Don't fucking call me that," he says again without thinking. He studies Eddie through the bars. "You know I can't get you out this time."

"Gathered that when they put me in here with motier foux down there." Eddie's gaze shifts down the corridor towards the other cell and grimaces. "Figured I'd call you anyway, just so someone knew I was here in case these bastards decide to disappear me. Didn't know you were back in the City."

"Two days ago," Jake says. "So your timing's either shitty or fantastic. Not sure which." He frowns. "And they're not going to disappear you, Ed. They're not the fucking Hit Wizards. You're registered in the Auror database, and we don't do that sort of shit."

Eddie flashes him that wide, too-bright smile that reminds Jake of their daddy. "Keep telling yourself that, little brother." The smile fades. "People go missing all the time in my line of work."

"Usually because they've done something goddamn stupid and gotten their damn ass killed," Jake points out. "And if you're fucking around with the people I'm pretty certain you're going to town with, then Jesus, Eddie." He gives his brother a despairing look. "I can't help you."

For a moment, he thinks Eddie looks frightened, then his brother's face smooths over. "Stop worrying about me, Jakey. I'll be fine. I'm a Durant. We always land on our goddamned feet."

Except when we don't, Jake wants to say. And then we end up serving a life sentence in Oudepoort. He looks away. "Be careful, Eddie," he manages to get out, and his brother just watches him for a long moment before he reaches between the bars and brushes a hand over Jake's head, the way he had when Jake was a kid.

"It'll be fine," Eddie says quietly. "You'll see. I'll be out of here by the end of the day and on the streets, worrying you about that."

And Jake does worry. He can't help himself. Eddie's family. He's pretty much all Jake has left, except for a slew of cousins in Thibodaux he sees once a year, if that. Eddie's a drifter, sliding in and out of New York as he pleases. Sometimes Jake gets an owl from some small town in Middle America. Once a crate of oranges from Southern California had arrived with a note from Ed. He never really knows where Eddie's going to be. Or what he's doing. He usually only gets picked up by the New York Aurors, as far as Jake knows, but Eddie's good at talking himself out of tough situation, so Jake never knows if there are other towns, other Auror holding cells Eddie's been in. It wouldn't surprise him. Eddie's quiet sometimes for weeks at a time, and then he shows up on Jake's doorstep or calling his cell phone, and Jake always answers.

He can't do anything else. Eddie's his goddamned brother, like it or not.

Jake presses his fist to his mouth. "Look, I'll see what I can do to make you a bit more comfortable." He studies Eddie. "Were you really the only one stupid enough to get caught?"

Eddie shrugs his shoulders. "Like I said, me and motier foux." He sighs. "I went to drop something off, the people were acting all fishy. They paid me, they disappeared, and that crazy bastard down there was walking me out when all hell broke loose. And that's it, Jakey." 

And Jake won't get anything more from him, he knows. He sighs and steps back. "You need anything from me, you get Billy to call. I'll set you up with a lawyer--"

"Already got one," Eddie says, and he sounds a bit smug. "Anna Picquery. Met her a week ago at--" He breaks off. "Never mind where. I just met her. And she said she'd be willing to represent me if ever I had a need." Eddie's face falls a bit. "Didn't think I'd be having a need this soon, but what the hell. Billy sent an owl for me."

Well, that's one thing off Jake's mind then. "All right. I'll keep an eye on things from my end, brother. See what I can do." He turns and starts to walk away. 

"Hey," Eddie says, and Jake looks back. "How's that Harry guy? The one I met? Quiet British dude? Drinks a beer like a damn master?"

Jake doesn't say anything for a moment. He knows his brother's just trying to reach out to him, trying to make a connection. Still. It doesn't stop the stab of pain that goes through him. Eddie'd liked Harry, and vice versa, which had surprised Jake, to be honest. 

"We broke up," Jake says finally, and Eddie's face softens. 

"Tough luck, Jakey," he says. Jake wants to laugh. Eddie doesn't know the half of it.

Jake shoves his hands in his pockets. "We're still working together for now, so I'll tell him you say hi."

"Do that," Eddie says, then he hesitates. "Wait. Do I need to whoop his ass or something? 'Cause I will, if I should."

That makes Jake laugh. "No." Although he wouldn't mind seeing his brother go up against Harry. He's not certain which one would win that duel. Harry's powerful, but Eddie's a wily snake, and he cheats like a motherfucker. Jake knows that to his own detriment. He starts back down the hallway. "Not yet at least."

"You say the word, Pichouette," Eddie calls after him, and Jake just shakes his head.

Goddamn, but he loves his brother. Even when he wants to punch his fucking face in.

***

Draco watches Potter in the fogged-up mirror of the en suite, entranced by the way Potter moves in the shower, all long muscle and broad shoulders and golden skin slick and wet. Draco knows Potter damned well left the curtain open on purpose; water's puddling on the black marble floor. And then Potter turns, his arse facing the mirror, firm and taut, his shoulders flexing as he slides his hands over his hair, squeezing the remnants of shampoo out. The suds run down the curve of Potter's spine.

For a moment Draco stills, the tooth cleaning charm still foaming in his mouth. Fucking hell, but Potter's beautiful, and a shiver of lust ripples through Draco. It's nearly too much, and he presses his toweled hips against the front of the sink, willing his prick to go down. Potter'd had him twice last night, once with the fireworks exploding in the sky behind them, and once across the wide, white bed, slow and careful, Draco's legs spread wide whilst Potter'd arched himself above Draco, his prick pressing deeper and deeper into Draco's body. Draco can still almost feel Potter in him, his arse deliciously sore. Circe, he thinks, and he bends his head, spitting the foam into the sink, then rinsing his mouth. The water shuts off behind him, and when Draco looks up again, Potter's stepping out of the shower, reaching for a towel of his own. 

"Hey," Potter says, and he comes up behind Draco, slipping his arms around Draco's waist and pulling Draco back up against his chest. He buries his face against Draco's still damp hair. "God, you smell fantastic."

"It's the same shampoo you just used," Draco says dryly, but he likes the way Potter's body feels against his back, and the soft huff of Potter's breath against his ear. 

Potter nips Draco's earlobe. "Smells better on you."

"You're an idiot," Draco says, but he smiles into the mirror, watching Potter as he kisses his way along the side of Draco's throat. 

"Probably," Potter says against Draco's shoulder. His hands slip up Draco's chest, fingers sliding over Draco's hardening nipples. He pinches one, rolls the other between his fingertips, and Draco breathes in sharply, his teeth catching his bottom lip. 

"We have work." Draco leans back against Potter, letting Potter's hand smooth down his belly. 

Potter catches Draco's mouth with his. Draco's breath stutters in the back of his throat. He could kiss Potter for hours, all teeth and tongue and soft, careful gasps. Potter pulls back, but only enough to say, "We could call in ill," his lips brushing against Draco's with each word. "Food poisoning, oh how terrible. Spend today fucking each other senseless." His fingers slide beneath the fluffy white edge of Draco's towel. "Again."

Circe, it's tempting. "We never could," Draco says, and Potter drags his tongue along the curve of Draco's lip, sending shudders going through Draco. "You know that." Draco watches Potter through heavy-lidded eyes, secretly hoping that Potter'll have an idiotic Gryffindor moment, say fuck it all, and carry Draco back to the mussed bed for the day. 

Instead Potter pulls back, his hand slapping hard and firm against Draco's left arsecheek. The touch makes Draco's prick ache. "I suppose you're right," Potter says, and his voice is filled with regret. He looks at Draco in the mirror. "Christ, I'd rather have you than have to face down Graves today." 

Potter reaches for a bottle of Penhaligon's Douro cologne. Draco'd been surprised by that when he'd started sleeping with Potter. Draco's been wearing the perfume house's English Fern since he was in Hogwarts and his mother had bought him his first bottle after he started nicking her Empressa. He'd mentioned it once to Potter, and Potter'd just laughed and said he might be a Gryffindor Philistine, but he liked to smell bloody good. 

And he does. Draco breathes in the citrusy, soapy scent of the cologne as Potter sprays it. He loves the way it develops on Potter's skin, wants to lick it off, bury his face in the crook of Potter's throat.

"You'll survive." Draco watches them both. He can see the faint flush on his cheeks, the curve of love bites across his flat belly that Potter had sucked into his pale skin last night. Potter isn't much better. There's a bruise on his bicep that definitely looks like fingertips; Draco'd held on tight to him at one point, begging Potter to take him harder. 

"You know." Potter's fingers trail down Draco's arms. "I could blow you here. That wouldn't take long."

Draco looks at Potter's reflection. He's watching Draco too, squinting a bit without his glasses, and Draco can feel the gooseflesh prickling across his skin wherever Potter's hands drift. "I feel as if that's a comment on my stamina." He frowns. 

Potter just laughs. "Or my skill at cocksucking."

"I still think that's an insult to me." Draco turns to face Potter, the sink digging into his arse now. He doesn't care if Potter can feel the swell of his prick through the towel. "I need to get clean clothes from my room."

"Wear some of mine." Potter's palming him through the towel, and Draco can barely think. "A few tailoring charms and they'll be fine."

Draco gives him a sceptical look, or what he hopes passes for one. "Your clothes are atrocious." They're not. Not entirely, although Draco objects to Potter's apparent love of khakis. And there's something about the idea of wearing Potter's clothes into MACUSA, parading about in front of everyone in Potter's trousers and shirt, that's bloody fucking arousing, he realises. 

Evidently Potter does too, judging by his quirked eyebrow and amused smile. "I think you'll survive," he says, and his hands close around Draco's arse, lifting Draco up against his own prick. It's almost instinctual now to wrap his legs around Potter, to slip his arms around Potter's neck as Potter carries him out of the en suite and drops Draco back down onto the bed. Draco's arse bounces slightly; Potter leans over him, one knee on the edge of the bed. "I'll even throw in a pair of braces if you want," Potter says, his finger hooking beneath Draco's towel. "I'd offer pants, but I prefer you commando." He pulls the towel open, exposing Draco's swollen cock. "Jesus." The way he's looking at Draco is almost reverential.

"I suppose if needs must." Draco spreads his thighs wider, his feet dangling just above the floor. "I could be convinced to wear your awful sartorial choices." His heart's thudding against his chest. He's going to be wrecked if Potter doesn't suck him, he thinks. His whole body feels as if it's on fire. He doesn't give a damn if they're late. 

Potter's just looking down at him, his face soft, his eyes warm. He trails a finger along the thin line of dark golden hair from Draco's navel down to the base of his prick. "Move your stuff in here tonight," he says suddenly. 

Draco blinks up at him. "What?"

A pink flush spreads across Potter's cheeks, but he doesn't look away. "We'll keep your room so the Ministry doesn't notice. But if you move your clothes in here, you can stay every night, and no one will give a damn. You won't have to slip out early, and we can do things like this." He lets his finger slide up the vein on the underside of Draco's cock. Draco exhales, the head of his prick already slick and seeping.

"That's ridiculous," Draco says, but Potter's thumb presses into the wet slit, pushing it a bit wider, and Draco hisses, his hips bucking up. "Potter--"

Potter slides Draco's foreskin back down, his breath ghosting across the tip of Draco's prick. "It's completely mad," he agrees, "but I want you here like this, spread across my bed--" His voice catches. " _Our_ bed," he says fiercely, and his eyes are bright and hot. "Say you will."

Oh, Circe, Draco wants to. Badly. "You know it's stupid--" Draco rolls his hips forward, letting his cock bob between his belly and Potter's perfect, idiotic face. 

"Is that a yes?" Potter grins down at him, and Draco almost hates him in that moment, except he doesn't, and he knows it, and that knowledge twists deeper into his heart, spearing him open. He'd do anything for Potter. He doesn't give a fuck what anyone else might say. Might think. Doesn't even give a fuck what he thinks. 

And so Draco nods, quick and sharp before he can second-guess himself, before he can talk himself out of something he knows is a horrible idea and that he wants more than anything else in this sodding world right now. 

"I'll do it," Draco says, "but I want your fucking mouth on my prick right now, you arsehole--" He cries out as Potter swallows the head, his tongue swirling across Draco's slit. 

This might be the worst decision Draco's ever made. 

And he doesn't bloody care. 

Draco tangles his hands in Potter's damp, thick hair and gives himself up to the feelings welling up inside of him with each soft flick of Potter's tongue against his prick. Draco writhes in delight beneath Potter's hands, his body Potter's to command.

If this is the only way he can have Potter, he'll damned well take it.

***

Under the stern gaze of the painting of the original twelve Aurors in Graves' office, Pansy's sat between Blaise and Draco, Althea standing near one of the barely cracked windows, trying to catch the wisp of a breeze that might make its way through. Good luck on that, Pansy thinks. Still, she's a bit concerned for the poor cow--although not that much, given the love bites down the long line of Althea's pale neck. Pansy suspects Althea's still a bit shagged out; she clearly didn't sleep much last night, given the dark circles under her eyes and the enormous coffee she'd downed before they'd been called into this meeting. And judging by how rumpled her clothes are--utterly unlike the Althea Pansy knows--she's probably also still wearing the outfit she'd worn out the night before, wherever she'd gone, albeit spelled somewhat clean. There's a fresh mending charm on two of her top buttons though. Sloppily done, and for some reason that bloody well irritates Pansy. As does the fact that Althea'd slunk into the incident room at half-ten with a guilty look on her face that Pansy had recognised. Blaise had given her a quick fistbump. Pansy tells herself to get over it. At least it's nice to have someone else on the team who's doing the walk of shame into the incident room--that's usually Pansy's role.

"I feel as though we've been summoned to the headmaster," Pansy says. She still doesn't think she likes Tom Graves. Or trusts him for that matter. He's very American in a way that unsettles her. He sees too much, she thinks, and he keeps it close to his chest, a bit like Durant in a way, but at least Durant can give you an easy smile and make you feel less as if he's examining every nook and cranny of your psyche. If Tom Graves isn't a trained Legilimens, Pany'll eat her...well, not hat as the only time she wears one is if her mother drags her to Ascot. 

"We have," Blaise says, not bothering to look at her. He shifts in his chair, crossing his ankle over his knee and slumping down further, a scowl on his face. He's been in a shirty mood all morning and refusing to talk about it when Pansy'd cornered him in front of the white board. He'd just told her to mind her own with that nasty snarl of his that Pansy knows full well not to push him on. The faint scent of Ogden's is still lingering a bit around him, just beneath his sharp-sweet cologne.

With a sigh and another glance towards the clock--it's nearly half eleven now and they were called in here at quarter past--Pansy straightens her skirt. The New York heat is beastly and humid, and natural fibres are a must, in her opinion. She's wearing a navy and white printed shell dress today with a thin linen cardigan. It's bearable within the Woolworth Building, although one could wish for stronger cooling charms, she thinks, particularly in their incident room, but the short walk over this morning had been warm already, and she imagines the afternoon will be awful. Perhaps she can convince Potter to let them Floo back out to the hotel, although the etiquette in New York seems to be that the MACUSA Floos are for people with further to go than a few city blocks. She's glad she twisted her hair up today, off the nape of her neck. It'd be drooping already.

Pansy misses the lovely feeling of the shore breeze from last night, ruffling her hair and cooling her warm skin, which leads her to thoughts of the fireworks over Umbrella Beach in Montauk--Daisy and Eustace had cast some sort of remote viewing charm that made the explosions appear much closer. Pansy loves fireworks, the way they spiral bright and shining through a dark sky, their booms resounding deep in her chest, stuttering her heartbeat, and this display hadn't disappointed. Standing on the sand, pleasantly tipsy from cocktails, Pansy'd gasped in delight with each burst of breathtaking colour over the ocean. She'd briefly wondered how much dosh each minute of the impressive display was costing, but she'd put that thought back out of her mind. Why spoil her fun if she didn't have to settle the bill? Instead, she'd let herself enjoy the moment and not think too hard about anything. The alcohol had helped. Leaning against a strong, well-clad shoulder hadn't hurt either--Godunov's scent was spicy, crisp, and expensive, his tailored linen suit even more so, and, if Pansy's honest with herself, she'd enjoyed his attentions. Godunov's a charming bastard, and Pansy's been raised with one of those since her childhood. Frankly, Terry Parkinson's the whole reason Pansy can deal with Draco and Blaise both, and if she can handle those two, she's not entirely worried about Godunov, whatever Tony might say. And if Daisy'd cast a worried eye her way now and again, well, Pansy knew she could be a handful, but she'd been on her best behaviour with Godunov. Nothing to ruin business, after all. Pansy knows the rules, even if she'd had no intention of leaving her Auror mentality behind. Godunov had known it too, and every time she'd pressed him on an acquaintance he'd mentioned or a bit of business he remarked on, he'd just smiled, his eyes crinkling at the corners, and deflected her skillfully. Pansy'd been impressed, she has to admit.

Draco is fidgeting next to her, clearly annoyed that they're being kept waiting, but grimacing each time he shifts in the chair and letting out a small, almost silent sigh. He's been doing that all morning. Pansy doesn't even want to know what the fuck he and Potter were up to yesterday to make him this uncomfortable today. Honestly, if he's going to shag like that, he needs to bloody learn numbing charms. Fuck knows that Pansy had needed them when she was with Tony.

Pansy can hear voices in the hall, but the sound is too muffled for her to make out words. The guv is out there, in the hall, definitely and Pansy thinks she can hear Durant's voice as well. No wonder Draco's getting annoyed.

"I really don't know why we're being kept in here when the meeting's obviously out in the bloody hall," Draco says after a moment, his voice petulant. "Why the fuck didn't they just leave us working on our evidence?" They'd been together for two hours in the makeshift incident room before being summoned to Graves' office for what looks to be a post-mortem on yesterday's raid. Draco'd been looking at the witness accounts and the wizarding intelligence reports whilst Blaise was scanning crimes reports for any other matches to Dolohov's magical signature. Pansy's thrilled to have a terminal, albeit ancient and castoff. Nothing like the modern, shiny one sitting on Espinoza's desk in the Auror bullpen, but at least it has a connection to the MACUSA system and full access to the magiometric report on Dolohov. They'd had to pull her away for the meeting.

"What's the rush?" Althea says from the window. She leans against the wall, trying to get comfortable. Her face is still a bit flushed from the heat. Or something. Circe knows what. "We're doing nothing but pushing around their bloody paperwork for them."

"I was just beginning to get a sense of the Dolohov account, ta ever so," Draco says with a scowl her way. "Not that you'd notice since you rolled in here late and looking like something Millie's Kneazle dragged in from the back garden."

Althea flips two fingers his way, but she smoothes back a wisp of hair that's slipped out of the tight knot at the nape of her neck. "Do you know how bloody long it takes to get a Floo connection from Long Island?"

"Long enough for you to get shagged again?" Blaise says, looking over at her, and Althea's cheeks pinken. 

"Fuck off," she says, but there's a small smile curving her lips, and Blaise snorts. Pansy frowns at them both, her irritation rising.

"Besides," Draco says, tapping his thumb against the arm of his chair and scowling over at Graves' empty desk, "we're not even going to be allowed out in the field until tomorrow." He stops, clearly having divulged something Potter'd told him privately. Pansy wants to roll her eyes, but she doesn't. The guv and Draco are both blissed out as usual today, exchanging glances and small, careful touches when they think none of the others are watching. Their physical closeness is even stronger in New York than London, and for Circe's sake, Pansy'll be surprised if half of MACUSA doesn't figure out that they're shagging from the post-orgasmic glow that constantly surrounds them. Fuck, but she hates them both. There's nothing more annoying than Draco when he's getting laid regularly, and Pansy isn't; to be honest, the guv's almost as bad. She'd heard him whistling today over his paperwork. _Whistling,_ for fuck's sake, and she's pretty damn certain it was Celestina Warbeck at that. And Draco'd just smiled at Potter the whole time, without even once threatening to throw a file at his head. 

It's like they've had a goddamned lobotomy, she thinks. Probably through their cocks.

They're not bloody well trying to be discreet here, either--Draco's even wearing Potter's clothes today. She'd noticed the moment she saw him come in this morning. Late at that. Those trousers have been altered magically to fit Draco's slighter frame, but she last saw them on the guv's arse last week. Same for the crisp white shirt, and the tie's obviously one of the guv's less garish ones, although Draco somehow manages to make it look stylish. 

"Why the fuck not?" Althea demands. "We're supposed to be hunting down a fucking Death Eater--"

"Don't shout at me," Draco says, sounding more irritated than ever. "All I know is that we're not being authorised for field work until tomorrow, and that's probably part of what Potter's shouting about out there. We're being fucking cockblocked by the Americans. I blame Durant, myself."

Pansy's sure he does. 

Blaise raises an eyebrow in Draco's direction, the flare of his nostrils speaking volumes. Really, Pansy thinks, Draco needs to learn not to be a shit about Durant in front of Blaise. Although she's not so certain Draco really understands how Blaise feels about Durant. Then again, she's not certain Blaise fucking understands himself, and that worries Pansy. Frankly, she thinks this is all going to be a complete disaster, and she blames Potter and Durant both for it. Sometimes she wishes they'd just stayed together and kept their whole sodding drama away from her boys. But all she can do is hunker down and hope for the best. If nothing else, she'll be here for them both when things implode. Pansy just prays it doesn't destroy their friendship in the process.

"Well, I'm sure the guv will have it sorted," Blaise says finally, and there's a sharp, bitter edge to his voice. "After all, the trail's nearly, what, ninety-six hours old, but what's that to Harry bloody Potter, Auror extraordinaire, eh?" 

In contrast to Draco and Althea, Blaise is beautifully dressed--and in his own clothes. He's been a complete shit since she'd run into him at breakfast, so Pansy's pretty sure he didn't find any joy last night. At the hotel, he'd barely greeted Pansy before pouring coffee down his throat and being absolutely impossible to please. He'd sent his omelette order back three times. Pansy's certain there's a story there, but he obviously doesn't want to talk about it. She's done her duty as a friend by asking once and being rebuffed. She'll wait until he's ready. If he ever is.

Draco doesn't say anything, but there's a set to his jaw that Pansy doesn't like. She turns a glare on Blaise--he really is being an arsehole, she thinks--and he looks away. 

"Forget it," Blaise mumbles, but Draco doesn't relax. 

They all look up when the door opens. Potter comes in first, walking over to take the seat they'd left next to Draco. It's like the team is already making space for the two of them, Pansy thinks, and she wishes she didn't have an inkling of disaster whenever she thought about Draco and the guv. Potter takes a moment to give Draco a warm, heated look, before nodding at the rest of them. Draco's face softens when he looks at him, and it nearly takes Pansy's breath away how beautiful he is when he's watching Potter. She's never seen Draco look that unguarded, that _happy_ , and it fucking terrifies her.

Pansy coughs and shifts in her seat, looking over to Graves and Durant to see if they're paying attention. Graves is rooting around in his desk for something. From the tension in his posture and the grim expression on his face, Pansy guesses the raid didn't go well. Durant's looking over at their group, and Pansy is momentarily worried that he's watching the guv and Draco, but when she follows his line of sight she realises he's looking at Blaise, who calmly picks an imaginary speck of dust off his trousers and flicks it away from him without meeting Durant's eye. Pansy now has an even better idea of why Blaise is throwing a wobbly, and she's going to get him pissed the next chance she gets so she can get the story out of him. She knows that Durant'd invited Blaise to a party last night, but the outcome doesn't seem to have been happy for either of them. Durant scowls and goes to sit in the corner. Althea takes the seat next to him. 

As Jake and Althea incline their heads to each other and exchange quick pleasantries, Pansy can feel Blaise tense up at her side. Fuck, but that's not a good sign. Honestly, she wants to kick him. Hard. And Draco too. They both know better than to bring sex into work, and here they both are, being complete arseholes about it, thinking with their pricks and not their brains. Circe, she doesn't know what to do with them. Thank Merlin that her giant mistake's only been Tony. 

Then again, that had been a sodding enormous one, all things considered.

Graves clears his throat. "Sorry for the delay, everyone." His pale blue eyes scan the Seven-Four-Alpha team. "We're waiting on our colleagues from the Surveillance Wizarding Resources Department who are wrapping up a witness examination. In the meantime, I'm happy to report that you've been cleared to work in the field in Brighton Beach tomorrow afternoon." He nods over to Potter. "We're still securing material today, but our teams are prepared to back you up as needed. You should be able to speak to locals about the recent events and get a sense of the area."

"Thank you, sir," Potter's face is blank, and Pansy supposes he's trying his best to be polite. It really is highly annoying that they've been rushed over here, then had to wait for another operation, even if it is linked to their work. Sometimes she wonders if Shacklebolt just wanted them out of the way, and she realises she hasn't looked at a British paper in days. She's no idea, really, what's going on in London, and that discomfits her. 

"Finding Dolohov is our highest priority," Graves continues. "We've already published his profile and we're hoping for another magiometric match if he gets near a scanner or if a report is called in." He sighs. "That's assuming he hasn't used Polyjuice or another form of physical transformation to change his appearance."

"Sir, couldn't MACUSA use the scanning apparatus on Brighton Beach to test the general public against his profile?" Pansy asks, genuinely curious about the implementation of the new technology and its limits.

"Not without breaking a slew of surveillance laws." Graves steeples his hands. "It may seem odd from a British standpoint, but while we're allowed to do some general monitoring without court approval, we can't legally turn detailed mechanisms loose on an entire area without defensible grounds. There'd be some sort of legal challenge if the general wizarding public found out and we're sailing close to the wind as it is." He scowls at that, his opinion of the general wizarding public and their litigation habits crystal clear. "And the data-gathering process is slow enough that it might take days before we found anything useful." 

Pansy nods and sits back in her chair. It's as she thought--magiometry is better as a confirmation of sightings than an active locating tool. She presumes that the usual spells aren't finding Dolohov either. She knows that British and American Aurors are bound by different laws, but she's surprised that MACUSA can't do something to track down Dolohov; she'd thought their crowd scanning technology much more advanced.

The door opens again, and Graves says, "There you are!" He gestures to three chairs that have been left to the right side of his desk. A thin, sallow, brown-haired witch in dove grey dress sits down, followed by a broad-shouldered African-American wizard in a purple oxford shirt and crisp black trousers. The third member of the group makes Pansy's heart stop--with those golden eyes, and sandy brown curls, it can only be Tony fucking Goldstein. She puts a hand to her mouth reflexively and realises both Draco and Blaise have leant in closer to her. She can't do anything but stare.

Graves gestures to the new arrivals. "Harry, I'd like your team to meet Timothy McGillicuddy and Paloma Grimsditch, Unspeakables who have been following the weapons trading ring that Dolohov is now believed to be working with. And you all likely know Anthony Goldstein, who's been working with your government on the UK connections."

Draco puts his hand on one of Pansy's arms, and Blaise's fingers are tight around hers. Pansy can't form thoughts properly in her head, but she knows now, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that Tony Goldstein is a fucking Unspeakable. 

Draco swears beneath his breath. "You unbelievable sodding wanker," he says, his voice ringing out through the suddenly silent office.

Tony's looking right at Pansy, his eyes fixed on her face. "Hello, Pans," he says, his voice almost gentle, wary even, and Pansy feels everyone looking at her--Potter and Althea and Durant in surprise, Graves curious, McGillicuddy and Grimsditch amused--and a hot flush goes through her whole body, her thoughts flying around her mind, wild and uncertain, and all Pansy can think is that everything Tony Goldstein has ever told her is a goddamned lie.

***

Draco's standing alone in the incident room, staring at the whiteboard, a quill in his hand, considering the new information that they've been given.

Two men have been caught in the raid, one a man of twenty-five years of age, his magical signature and wand registered under the name Les Harkaway of Cambridge, Massachusetts. His photograph glares out at Draco, all brown hair falling over a sharp, angular face, long and narrow and oddly familiar to Draco. It's almost as if Draco's seen him before, but that's madness. Draco's never been to the States, and according to Harkaway's records, he's never been out of them. 

And the other is Edward Durant. Draco can see the resemblance immediately. It's in the squared angle of the jaw, the squint of the eyes, that slow smile that's both mocking and fiercely unsettling at the same time. Durant had been furious during the meeting with Graves when his brother had come up; Draco'd nearly thought he was going to slam out of the office. He hadn't, though, and that sodding wanker Goldstein had reported on his interrogation of the older Durant brother with only minimal scowling from Durant, who'd sat on Potter's other side, his chair creaking with every annoyed shift of his body. 

Eddie Durant hadn't given them much of anything, really, other than the suggestion that the people he might have been meeting with--Eddie'd been cagey about who they were, Goldstein said--might have also been expecting the raid.

They'd weaseled out even less from Harkaway, who'd refused to say one word to them without legal representation. At least Eddie'd caved a little, Draco thinks, frowning between the pictures of the two men.

No weapons. No traces of Dolohov. Only two witnesses, both of whom are practically useless at the moment. Draco swears and puts the quill down, running one hand through his hair in frustration. Not to mention the MACUSA magiforensics team is still processing the scene, so they can't even go down to the warehouse to take a look around, ask a few questions. Fuck, but Draco's starting to wonder if _anyone_ really wants Dolohov caught. 

And then there's Tony Goldstein showing up. Draco's not certain anything else about this case is going to surprise him more, even though he now knows he did actually see Tony in the Department of Mysteries last Friday. He never would have put Goldstein down as a spook, particularly not one in their undercover division. There's a part of him that's impressed, and another part that's furious for Pansy's sake. He doesn't trust Tony any further than he can bloody throw him, if he's honest. Draco never has liked him. Not with the way he'd played Pans during their affair. And especially not now. 

Draco presses his hand against the back of his neck and sighs. He almost wants to go home, to chuck in the towel and let Dolohov do whatever the fuck he's going to do. Draco's so damned tired, and he's feeling….not out of sorts, precisely. Off-kilter, perhaps, with Potter's request this morning. He's going to do it, of course. He'll move in to Potter's room. He doesn't even have to think about it twice, which is what's making him uneasy.

He startles as strong arms slide around his waist, and Potter buries his face against Draco's neck, the scent of his cologne wafting towards Draco, almost as if Draco's conjured him with his thoughts. Draco stiffens and starts to pull away, but Potter holds him close. 

"It's just us," he says against Draco's jaw. "The others are still off with Jake's team going through Goldstein's interview recordings again."

Draco relaxes against Potter's body. "Pansy'll be thrilled," he murmurs. Potter's hands are splayed across his stomach, warm through the thin cotton of his--Potter's--shirt.

Potter nuzzles Draco's ear. "Yeah, what's with that?" He nips at Draco's earlobe, and Draco knows he should pull away, knows anyone could walk through that door at any moment and catch them. It's the thrill of that thought that keeps him still. 

"Long story," Draco says. He doesn't want to get into it, not right now with Potter pressed against him, the half-swell of Potter's prick settled against the crease of Draco's arse. He loves Potter's touch; it makes his body prickle in delight, and this small, stolen moment together in the middle of the MACUSA Auror department feels like a precious gift.

Draco looks back over his shoulder at Potter, at his pink mouth, curved in a small smile. "I really want to kiss you," he says, and there's a flicker of something in Potter's eyes that makes Draco's toes curl in his boots. 

"Yeah?" Potter leans in, his breath ghosting against Draco's mouth. "You could."

A shiver goes through Draco, slow and lingering, and he lets his head fall back against Potter's shoulder, his throat stretched long, his chin pointed up. "I could," he murmurs, and then Potter's mouth is gentle on his, careful and soft at first, small, little kisses that take Draco's breath away. He loves the taste of Potter, that bitter tang of coffee, followed by the sharp sweetness of the man himself. Draco's never liked kissing anyone as much as he likes kissing Potter. He thinks he could happily do it for hours, getting lost in the lazy, warm press of their bodies, their mouths, their tongues together. 

One of Potter's hands drifts down to Draco's arse, fingers stroking lightly along the curve of one hip.

"You cannot fuck me again, Potter," Draco says with a smile against Potter's lips. "My arse is still aching from yesterday afternoon. And last night."

Potter laughs softly, then kisses Draco again. "Three times too much for one day?"

"Even with a numbing charm." Draco hasn't been able to sit properly since he came in, trailing after Potter, who hadn't given a fuck that they were both a half-hour late. Pansy's been giving him sharp, curious looks all morning, and he's certain she knows exactly why. He breathes out as Potter's fingertips skim the crease of his arse. "I'm serious." As much as he's tempted to let Potter push him over one of the desks here and fuck him senseless, Draco doesn't think his body can bear it. Not after last night. Merlin, but Potter's insatiable. 

Potter nips at Draco's bottom lip. "You could always fuck me," he says in a low, throaty voice, and Draco's entire body jerks at that thought. He groans against Potter's mouth.

"You're a wretch," Draco says, and Potter captures his mouth again, kissing him until Draco's breathless and aching, his mind filled with thoughts of Potter's nude body spread out beneath him, Draco's prick buried up to his bollocks in that gorgeous arse.

"Only for you." Potter's hand slides up to cup Draco's face, fingertips moving against Draco's hair, and it's the perfect moment, Draco thinks, just him and Potter and the silence of the incident room. 

Which is broken by the sound of the door opening, and Potter jerks away, Draco moving the opposite direction, both of them breathing hard. Potter's face is flushed; Draco can tell by the heat on his cheeks that his is as well. His heart pounds a staccato beat against his rib cage.

Durant just watches them from the doorway, an inscrutable look on his face. "Espinoza thinks we have a lead," he says quietly. "You might want to stop by the bullpen."

Potter doesn't look at Durant. Or Draco for that matter. "We'll be there in a minute," he says, and Durant starts to close the door, then stops. He glances back at them, mouth tight, jaw set.

"I know you're both going to do whatever the fuck you want," Durant says, his voice low. His gaze meets Draco's. Draco refuses to look away. "But I'd fucking appreciate it if you kept it out of the goddamned office I work in, thanks."

"Sorry," Potter says, but he moves closer to Draco, not further away. 

Durant's eyes narrow, and he shakes his head. "Jesus, Harry, you're a shit," he says, and he slams the door so hard the desks rattle across the floor. 

"You shouldn't push him," Draco says, but Potter's already reaching for his hand, pulling him closer. "You know that."

Potter smoothes a hand over Draco's cheek, lets his fingers drift down Draco's throat. Draco's sure Potter can feel the beat of his pulse beneath his palm. "I know," Potter says after a moment. "But I'm not going to let him dictate what we do, yeah?"

Draco licks his bottom lip, pulls it into his mouth with his teeth before it slides back out. Fuck, but he's definitely moving his things into Potter's room. Tonight. He likes this side of Potter, this stubborn, reckless, idiotic part of him that wants Draco so much he's willing to antagonise anyone. Particularly his ex. Draco wants Durant to know that he won, that Potter would stand up for him, that Potter doesn't give a fuck what Durant wants or says or does because he's too bloody lost in Draco. 

"You're an idiot," Draco whispers, and Potter smiles at him, leaning his forehead against Draco's. 

"Back at you," Potter says, and his lips brush Draco's, soft and warm and oh so light before he pulls away, leaving Draco aching for more. "We should go, though, or he'll be back."

Draco nods. He doesn't want to go. He wants to stay here with Potter, alone, lost in their kisses. But that's a fantasy, one that'd be rudely interrupted again. Probably with less grace if it's Pans or Blaise, he thinks. Circe only knows what Althea'd do. 

He touches Potter's cheek for the briefest moment, needing that one last feel of Potter's warm skin. "Lead on," he says, and he trails Potter out of the room. 

If he's honest with himself, Draco thinks, he knows he'd follow Potter anywhere.

***

"This is what I found," Espinoza says, and Pansy leans over her desk to activate the replay of the recording charm. She's doing her best not to look at Tony who's standing across from her, watching her out of the corner of his eye.

"I ain't telling you why I was there," Eddie Durant says from the recording, his drawl ringing out over the bullpen, causing other Aurors to look over at their small group. Pansy frowns and adjusts the volume of the charm with a sweep of her wand. "It was business of mine, and none your damn, Detective PrissyPants."

"That's Unspeakable Goldstein to you, Eddie." Tony's voice sounds exasperated on the recording. Good, Pansy thinks. The bastard deserves it. "But to be clear, you're expecting us to believe you have nothing to do with Antonin Dolohov or the group of individuals whom we believe were storing magical weapons in this warehouse. You were just here on business."

There's a long pause in the recording. You can hear Eddie's breathing and the scratch of his chair against the concrete floor of the interview room. Pansy glances around at the group gathered around. Blaise and Althea are listening carefully, Martine's leaning against a cubicle wall, one arm stretched out along the divider and a frown on her face, Potter and Draco are standing far too close together for Pansy's liking, and Tony's looking distinctly uncomfortable. Durant, on the other hand, is stone-faced, his mouth tight, his arms folded across his chest. Pansy feels for him. It can't be easy finding out your brother's caught up in a case like this. 

"I was delivering a package," Eddie says after a moment. "Something that was ordered, special-like."

"From you?" Tony asks, the recording crackling his voice for a moment.

Eddie snorts. "Who the fuck else would it be from? I have a certain skill set that comes into use sometimes, and if you have any other questions about that, you can stuff 'em up your ass because I already told my brother, I ain't speaking to you fuckers without my lawyer. I know my rights, and I ain't a fucking fool."

At Espinoza's nod, Pansy stops the recording charm. "So," Espinoza says, and she's not looking at Durant, Pansy notes, "for the hell of it, I ran a location charm to see if I could pick up any of Eddie's recent whereabouts. He's a tricky little asshole--sorry, Jake."

"It's the truth," Durant says with a shrug. His face doesn't soften. 

Espinoza turns back to her terminal. She taps a few keys, and a map of the eastern United States shows up, a few spots highlighted. "So we know Eddie was in Thibodaux, Louisiana two weeks ago. He checked in with his parole officer from there. Everything was fine. Then I have him showing up in Savannah a week later." She types something into her keyboard, and another window pops up on the screen. "Salem Twenty records show a payment made to Picquery Apothecary on the twenty-eighth of June. He bought black snake root, boomslang skin, mandrake, a tincture of thyme, and…" She frowns at the screen. "A half-gram of Soul Grass."

Pansy can't help her sharp breath. "You sell Soul Grass in the States?" She exchanges a glance with the rest of her team. Potter really doesn't look bloody happy now.

"It's a highly regulated substance and can only be sold in small amounts," Espinoza says. "Less than a gram every twelve months, unless you apply for a special permit, which you're not likely to get without some serious scrutiny into your entire business practice. And it's only available through approved apothecaries who have to register individuals who buy it. Which is why Eddie's transaction was flagged. He must have known that."

"And not given a damn," Durant says. "Knowing Eddie." He looks grim. "None of what he bought indicates he's brewing anything benign. Goddamn it, Ed."

Tony looks over at him. "You think it's a potion?" 

Durant runs a hand through his already mussed curls. "Eddie's good at brewing. He never finished school, but he's got a natural talent for it. Among other things. Dredging up artefacts that he shouldn't have access to--"

"Or that he stole," Espinoza says, and she's frowning at her terminal. "Judging from his rap sheet."

"That too." Durant sighs. "So my guess is he either brewed a potion for whomever Dolohov met up with in Brighton Beach, or he dropped off a damn artefact."

"Based on his purchase it looks like the former," Potter says, and Durant nods. "What, though?"

Pansy nudges Espinoza's shoulder. "Alma, can you get me a copy of that purchase record?" When Espinoza nods, Pansy glances back over at Potter. "Give me some time with the database. I think I might be able to reverse engineer it, but it won't be quick."

"Do what you can," Potter says. "How long do you think you'll need?"

"A day or two?" Pansy shrugs. "It'd help if I could use a workbench down in one of the labs."

Durant rubs his chin. "I could probably arrange that for you. Might take until tomorrow."

"That's fine." Pansy's already taking the piece of paper Espinoza hands her listing Eddie Durant's purchases. "I can start by sifting through the databases to see if anything known matches up with it."

"Probably won't." Durant shakes his head. "Eddie's notorious for making shit up himself. The asshole could have been a potions genius if school hadn't bored him."

"If anyone can crack it, Pansy can," Blaise says, and she gives him a grateful smile. Even when he's being a prat, he still has her back, and she loves him for it. 

Potter claps his hands. "Right then. Let's get back to work. Parkinson, I'm officially going to pull you off the evidence investigation and put you on this until you figure it out."

She nods. "Thanks, guv." It means a lot that he trusts her judgment. 

Pansy's halfway back to the incident room when Tony falls into step beside her. "You can fuck off," she says, not bothering to look at him. "I'm not talking to you. Ever."

"That's going to be hard, given we're working together," Tony says, and Pansy stops in the middle of the hall, turning to face him.

"I'm _not_ working with you, Tony." Pansy's bloody furious. "If I were working with you, you would have told me what the fuck you were actually doing instead of coming over to my flat to warn me off sodding Godunov, who probably has fuck-all to do with this." 

Tony just gives her a calm look. "Are you done?"

No, she's not. She's just working herself up, she thinks, but she bites her tongue and turns away from him, striding down the hall as fast as she can in three-inch heels. 

"Pans." Tony catches up with her, his hand grabbing at her elbow. Pansy jerks away.

"Don't touch me," she spits out, whirling around. "You're a fucker, Tony Goldstein. Draco and Blaise warned me you were the first time I fucked you, and they were _right._ " Her voice rises; she can see some of the American Aurors down the hall turning to eye her. She doesn't care. Her mother would have her arse for causing a scene like this, but Pansy's angry and she's hurt and she wants to slap that calm look off Tony's face. "You've lied to me, you keep lying to me, and you've made me look like a fucking twat in front of _everyone_ \--"

"Hey," Tony says, and he reaches for one of her hands. She brings them both up, away from him, her fists clenched, the paper in her hand crumpled, and he stops, holding up his own hands, palms towards her. "I just want to talk to you."

Pansy looks at him, her mouth tight. "You're talking."

"Somewhere other than the middle of a MACUSA hallway," Tony says, and she can tell he's getting frustrated. "Merlin, Pans."

Althea walks up, looking between Pansy and Tony. "You okay?" she asks Pansy, and the way she sizes up Tony makes Pansy want to laugh. Tony'd flatten Althea in a heartbeat--he's way too good at Krav Maga, and really, shouldn't that have been a clue?--but the fact that Pansy thinks Althea'd actually take him on if she asked makes Pansy want to throw her arms around the other woman. 

"I'm all right, thanks," Pansy says, and she gives Althea a small smile. Althea gives Tony a sharp glare, but she nods and walks on. 

"Come with me?" Tony asks. "Before I get drawn and quartered by Zabini and Malfoy? And maybe Whitaker too." He watches Althea disappear around the corner, casting one last frown back their way.

Pansy lets him lead her away, down a smaller hallway and into an empty office. "Don't close the door," she says, just as he starts to.

Tony sighs, and he leaves it half-open. He leans against the wall and looks at her. "I couldn't tell you what I was doing," he says after a moment. "I've been undercover for this operation for eighteen months now."

"Working against Godunov." Pansy sits on the edge of the bare desk. It doesn't look like anyone uses this office, she thinks. The Americans seem to have a lot of empty spaces like this. Then again, a good chunk of their force is working with their Muggle military, or so she's been told. Pansy wonders who had this office, where they are now. She looks over at Tony. "Or whatever."

"Dimitri Godunov is a person of interest, yes," Tony says. "Amongst others. Look, Pans, we think British money is going to finance wizarding extremist groups in the States--"

"Old news, Ton," Pansy says. She folds her arms over her chest. "Lucius Malfoy's already under suspicion--"

"I think Lucius is a fucking patsy," Tony says bluntly, and Pansy looks up at him in surprise. Tony shrugs. "I'm not saying he's not a shit. Or that he's not mixed in with things. But I don't think Lucius is the one running things. Not really."

"Who then?" Pansy asks, but when Tony smiles faintly at her, she knows he's not going to answer her. Not directly anyway. 

Tony pushes himself off the wall and walks over to her, standing just inches from her knees. He hasn't shaved this morning, and there's stubble across his jaw. She wants to press her mouth to it, to feel the firmness of his chest beneath her palms. Instead she clenches her fists and looks away. 

"Pans," he says, and he touches her chin, his fingers gentle against her skin. He turns her face back towards him. "I'm doing everything I can to protect your father." He looks deep into her eyes. " _Everything._ "

"Daddy's not one of those." Pansy shakes her head forcefully. Her father wouldn't ever. Not after the war especially. "Not like Lucius Malfoy--"

Tony sighs. "No, your dad's not a wizarding supremacist. Or a Death Eater. Or anything like that. I know. But he's in bed with people he oughtn't be in bed with--" He breaks off.

"It's a family trait," Pansy says, her mouth tight. "We're evidently terrible judges of character."

That makes Tony smile. "Obviously," he says, and there's a softness in his voice that makes Pansy's resolve tremble just a little. 

"Don't you dare, Tony," Pansy says. Her throat tightens. "Don't--"

He leans in and kisses the corner of her mouth. Light. Gentle. 

Pansy closes her eyes. "Tony," she whispers. Her whole body throbs. "I really hate you." She doesn't. Even as angry as she is, she doesn't. But fuck, she wants to.

"I know," Tony whispers. His voice is a soft huff of breath across her lips. "I'm sorry, Pansy. I wanted to tell you."

"Liar," Pansy says, and she opens her eyes again, looking into the golden brown of his gaze. 

Tony traces the curve of her cheek with his knuckle. Pansy feels the touch deep inside of her, reverberating in her body's quiet emptiness. "I think Godunov and Dolohov are working together," he says after a moment. "Not ideologically. Dimitri Godunov's far too practical for that sort of thing. But he's not above using Dolohov to stir up trouble."

"Why'd he want to do that?" Pansy's finding it hard to think with Tony this close. She does know that she's no damned intention of telling him about Godunov being beside her last night. Tony can have his secrets. So can she.

"Instability within a populace can be beneficial for political and capitalist gain," Tony says. "Especially if you're in a position to supply countermeasures." His hands drop to Pansy's knees, sliding her skirt up a bit. She smacks his hands away.

"Stop that."

Tony just smiles at her. "You certain?" He glances back at the half-open door.

"I'm not fucking you," Pansy says bluntly. "Not here nor anywhere else. So just get that out of your mind." Because fuck knows if she can get it out of hers. Tony Goldstein is trouble, she reminds herself. If she hadn't learnt that lesson before--which obviously she hasn't--she ought to have it seared in her mind now. He's trouble. A fucking, lying, pile of shitty trouble.

And sexy as hell, still. That's the biggest problem, Pansy thinks. She slides off the desk, straightening her skirt.

Tony steps back, and Pansy can breathe again. "I didn't want to lie to you," he says. "But if you knew--"

"I'd what?" Pansy frowns at him. "I'm a fucking Auror, Tony--"

"Your father is under investigation by the Department of Mysteries," Tony snaps. "If you knew, what would you have done?"

Pansy stills. "Is that why you fucked me the first time?" she asks Tony, her voice low. "After all those years of flirting with me? You had an affair with me because of my father? Because you wanted me to say something that might be useful?" He looks away instead of denying it, and something tight and unhappy settles in the pit of her belly. "Fucking hell, I'm a fool."

"It wasn't like that," Tony says, his voice angry and sharp. "It was never like that, Pansy. Not between you and me. Never."

"I don't believe you." Pansy's voice cracks and she hates herself for showing weakness in front of him. Tony's always known how to play her, ever since they were kids.

"Pansy," he says, but she's already walking away, her legs trembling, the paper Espinoza had given her crumpled and torn in one hand. 

She looks back at the door. "Stay the fuck away from me,Tony Goldstein," she says, her voice fierce and low. "And if you go near my family, I swear to God, I'll destroy you. However I can. I don't give a fuck how long it takes me."

The door slams behind her. Head held high, Pansy strides down the hall, ignoring the looks she gets. 

She makes it to the loo, a stall door locked behind her, before she breaks down into silent, wracking sobs.

***

Blaise shakes a martini in the shaker he's transfigured from the ice bucket Pansy's brought down from her room along with the bottle of vodka Daisy'd given her last night before she left the Hamptons. Althea's scrounged up a bottle of vermouth from the bartender downstairs she's made friends with. He'd sold it to her at wholesale cost; in Dragots though, since he's a wizard, so Blaise thinks it's rather unlikely those coins are going to make it into the hotel's coffers. Whatever. He doesn't give a damn, and neither does Althea, evidently.

Draco's contribution has been a jar of olives he'd purchased at the bodega down the street, and they've each brought a glass from their own room. Potter hasn't been invited; Blaise had deemed this gathering for the grunts only, and anyway, Potter'd had to go to dinner with Graves, Quahog, and a few of the other high muckety-mucks from Quahog's Cabinet. Potter'd looked miserable as he'd been dragged off, and Blaise almost felt sorry for him. Then again, that's the price to pay for being the Saviour of the Wizarding World, British Edition, Blaise thinks. He's fucking glad the most notorious thing he's known for is being Olivia Zabini's son. 

Speaking of which, he thinks, pouring the martinis into the transfigured room glasses, he probably needs to firecall his mum soon. Olivia's never gone this long without hearing from him, at least briefly.

Althea's stretched out across Blaise's bed, her face in the pillows. She'd waved off the martini he'd offered her, saying she was here for the company, not the drinks, and then promptly started to doze. He doesn't blame her, he supposes. She's shagged out, that much is obvious. 

So's Draco, but he's perched on the window ledge, his bare feet on the wood, his back against the wall, looking out at the twilight spreading out over the Hudson. He takes the martini Blaise hands him and sighs. 

"Stop sad-sacking," Pansy says from the other side of Blaise's bed. She's sat up, unlike Althea, her back against the headboard, one bare foot dangling off the mattress. Her heels are on the floor beside her, one tilted over the other. "It's not like Potter's back anyway, so you can't ditch us to have your arse shagged off again."

Blaise walks another martini over to Pansy, then drops down in the armchair beside the bed, his own drink in his hand. "Also, don't wear the guv's clothes next time? That tie was awful on you."

Draco dangles the offending piece of silk from his fingertips. "It was the least horrific one I could find, given we were running late." He drops it onto the floor then runs his fingers through his hair, pulling at a few snarls that have been there since this morning. "Ow."

"That's another thing," Pansy says, pointing a finger at him. "If you're not going to pull your hair back when you fuck, then at least try to shag him upright. Fewer snarls from being slammed across the mattress."

"Says she who speaks from personal experience," Draco says, a bit snappishly. His cheeks are pink, and Blaise wonders how many times Potter'd had Draco last night. Until they'd shown up late and a bit out of breath this morning at the Woolworth Building, Blaise hadn't seen either of them since breakfast yesterday.

Pansy shrugs and pops an olive into her mouth. "I'm just saying. Shagging on your back with hair as long as yours is going to mean you end up with snarls the size of Tower Hamlets." Her eyes narrow. "Ask me how I know."

"Tony, yes." Blaise waves a hand at her. "It's tragic."

"Shagging a girl on her back is brilliant though." Althea's voice is muffled into the pillow until she turns her head and gives Draco a sleepy look. "I mean, I don't know how it is for blokes, but I'm a fan of looking down on a girl like that. Shagged out hair and all."

"It's not half-bad looking up, either," Draco says to Blaise's surprise. His flush spreads when they all look over at him. "Shut it all of you. I'm not about to worry about the state of my fucking hair at certain crucial moments." He combs his fingers through his hair again; this time the strands slip through without catching. 

Althea pushes her loose hair out of her face. Blaise doesn't think he's ever seen it down like this, or at least not pulled back in some severe way. He likes the way it softens her cheeks and jaw like this. "I mean, really," she says, "if you're concerned about that in the middle of a good shag, then someone's not doing their bloody job properly." 

"She has a point," Blaise says.

"Obviously." Althea stretches, then pulls her knees up to her chest. "The whole point of sex is to get shagged so hard you can't walk straight the next day."

Pansy gives Althea a thoughtful look. "And how well did you fuck that poor girl last night? What was her name?"

"Lucy." Althea rolls onto her side, pulling the pillows up beneath her head. "Lucy from Long Island, and let's just say she was multi-orgasmic and leave it at that." She yawns, closing her eyes again, and Blaise suspects he'll have Althea sleeping in his bed tonight. Fuck it. She might as well stay. He'll just go up to Draco's room. Chances are pretty good it won't be used tonight anyway, and it's got a better view.

They're all quiet for a moment, then Draco looks over at Pansy over the rim of his glass. "So, Goldstein," he says, and Pansy looks away. 

"I don't want to talk about him." Pansy twists the stem of her transfigured glass between her fingers.

"You should," Althea says sleepily. "He's a sodding arsehole from what even I can see, and I don't even know any of you lot that well."

Pansy flicks Althea's forearm. "Hush you." 

"Listen to the woman," Draco says, and Blaise bites back a snort. 

"Never thought I'd hear you say that about Althea," Blaise says. 

"He likes me." Althea doesn't open her eyes to see the two fingers Draco flicks her way. "A little at least." She flicks two fingers back at him, and Blaise snorts.

"Outrageous lies." But there's a faint tinge of affection in Draco's voice that surprises Blaise a little. It's odd, he thinks, how quickly Althea's started to settle into their team of misfits. Maybe she was always meant to be one of them after all.

Althea smiles. "Told you." She nestles her face against Blaise's pillowcase. 

Pansy smoothes Althea's hair back from her forehead. She's silent, and for a moment Blaise thinks she's going to let Draco's prodding lie. She sighs, and looks back over at Draco. "Tony's an arsehole, and I'm not going to sleep with him." She hesitates. "Again." 

Draco raises his eyebrows. "All right," he says, but his disbelief is evident. Even Blaise has to agree. Pansy's never been good at staying away from Goldstein.

"I meant it this time." Pansy takes a sip of her martini. "He slept with me to get to my father, you know. At first, he says." She makes a moue of disdain. "Wanker."

"He didn't." Blaise is outraged, and more than taken aback. He'd never thought Goldstein the complete twat that Draco had, but he'd always assumed the man had been arse over tit for Pansy from the beginning. He'd risked his marriage for her, after all.

Pansy shrugs. "Whatever," she says, but Blaise can see how deeply she's hurt. 

"I'll hex him," Draco says, but Pansy holds up a hand. 

"Don't." She chews on her lip. "I don't want to care about it any more, you know? I don't want to think about it. I don't want to deal with him--"

"He's working with our team," Blaise points out. "I think you'll have to."

Pansy has a stubborn look on her face. "Only as much as I'm forced to. The guv freed me up for lab work, after all."

Draco's scowling at her, but Blaise knows it's not really directed towards Pansy. Not really. "He's a tit," Draco says, and Pansy sighs. There's nothing she can say to that. "Goldstein, I mean. Not Potter." He considers. "Most of the time."

Althea makes a soft noise that sounds like a snore. The glance Pansy gives her is affectionate. 

What the fuck, Blaise thinks. He might as well admit his own folly. 

"I kissed Jake last night."

Both Pansy and Draco look at him, eyebrows raised. "You didn't," Pansy says after a moment.

Blaise shrugs and lifts his glass to his mouth. He takes a drink, then says, "He turned me down. Politely, but…" The rejection still stings a bit. Blaise isn't used to being told no. Not when he wants someone as badly as he wanted Jake sodding Durant last night. 

Draco's obviously astounded. "Is he mad?"

That makes Blaise smile. "Not that I know of." He runs his thumb along the rim of his glass. "He kissed me back," he admits. "Then told me he'd been in my head and it wouldn't be ethical."

"Sod fucking ethical," Pansy says, her mouth a twist of anger. "Not a one of us in this room--well, except Althea here--has a goddamned passing acquaintance with ethical relationships right now."

Her fury's making Blaise feel better. He'd spent today sulking and basting in his own self-pity. It's good to hear his friends be angry on his behalf.

"Durant's obviously an idiot if he doesn't want you," Draco says loyally, and Blaise knows what that statement's cost him. 

"What are you going to do?" Pansy asks after a moment, and Blaise sets his drink down on the flat upholstered arm of his chair. 

"I don't know." Blaise considers. He doesn't really know what he can do. "Give him time, I suppose. See if he changes his mind." Do everything he can to make him jealous, he thinks, but he's not about to admit that out loud. "Look at us," he says to her with a faint smile. "You and I are completely fucked up, and Draco over here's the fucking picture of domesticity with the guv. Who'd have thought that?"

"Fuck off," Draco says, but he looks a bit too pleased with himself, Blaise thinks. 

Draco's mobile chirps at him and he fishes it out of his trousers pocket. His face grows soft when he reads the text, and Blaise is certain it's from Potter. 

"You need to go?" Blaise asks, and Draco looks up at him. There's a warmth in his eyes that Blaise is bloody well jealous of. He wonders when Draco's going to admit to them that he's in love with Potter--or whether Draco even knows it himself. He's not the most self-aware of creatures at times, Blaise thinks. 

"Yeah." Draco glances over at the sleeping Althea. "You want my room key?" Blaise holds out his hand, palm up, and Draco tosses it over. Blaise catches it. Draco hesitates, then says. "My things are in Potter's room anyway." He looks a bit embarrassed. 

Pansy raises an eyebrow. "Are they." It's not a question.

"It seemed better," Draco says, sliding off the window ledge. He lands with a soft thump against the carpet. 

"You're so seldom there anyway," Blaise says. He knows there's a jealous tinge in his voice from the sympathetic look Pansy gives him. He wants Draco to be happy. He truly does. But fuck if it doesn't sting a bit right now. Perhaps he's a shit friend, but Draco's always been the one of them with the fucked-up love life, the one who fell for arseholes and twats like Nicholas Lyndon, who needed to be put back together by Blaise and Pans. And now Draco's the one who's glowingly content whilst Pansy and Blaise are the bitter old bastards in the back of the bus, whinging about the misfortune life has dealt them. 

Draco hesitates, and then he says, "I'm sorry, Blaise," and Blaise knows he means it, knows that Draco understands exactly what it's like to be on this end of the stick. It doesn't help. Blaise wishes it did. 

"Go on with you," Blaise says, trying to dredge up a faint smile. "We're counting on you, old man. You've the only hope of any of us getting a leg over tonight."

"I'd say that's pretty decent odds." Pansy leans back against the headboard, pulling her knees to her chest, her skirt spread about her. She glances over at Althea. "Now that we've lost this one."

Draco's mobile chirps again, and Draco glances down at it. "He wants to know where I am," Draco says, and Pansy just laughs. 

"Go." She waves a hand at him. "Stop worrying about us poor bastards. We've each other and a half a bottle of vodka left to go through before the sun comes up, so go find the guv and do whatever nasty little thing he's itching for tonight."

"You're awful," Draco says, but he leans in and kisses her cheek. He glances back at Blaise. "Sleep well, old man."

Blaise flips two fingers at him, but he smiles, letting it linger until Draco closes the door behind him. It slips when he looks over at Pansy and sees the wry, almost bitter expression on her face. 

"People in love are the worst, aren't they?" she says, and Blaise shakes his head. 

"You think he knows?" he asks, and he pushes himself out of his chair, going back over to the dresser for the vodka. Fuck shaking it, he thinks. He wants it straight from the bottle. 

Pansy doesn't answer, and he glances back at her. "Pans?" he asks, and she sighs, her fingers smoothing over the back of Althea's head. Althea breathes out and shifts, still fast asleep. 

"I think that's why he's so nervous," Pansy says at last, and she looks up at Blaise, her lip caught between her teeth. "I think he knows, and I think he can't say it, and I'm worried, Blaise. I don't know what's going to happen when it all falls apart for him."

Blaise leans against the dresser, the bottle of vodka in his hand. "It might not."

"When do things ever work out for us?" Pansy asks softly. "For him?"

They're silent for a moment, then Blaise sighs. 

"All we can do is be there to pick up the pieces," he says. That's all they can ever do for each other, he thinks.

"He's never been in love before," Pansy says quietly. 

Blaise takes a swig of vodka from the bottle and looks out over the darkening city. "Have any of us?"

Pansy slides off the bed and pads over to him, wrapping her arms around his waist. She smells like violets and frangipani, sharp and sweet. "Maybe it's time we let ourselves," she says, her voice almost too soft for him to hear. 

Together they stand at the window, New York sprawled beneath them, a swathe of glittering lights. 

Maybe she's right, Blaise thinks. 

The very thought of it terrifies him.

***

Harry wakes up early on Thursday morning, too early really for New York time. He supposes his biological clock must still be arsed up from Sunday's Portkey. And perhaps also a bit from the turmoil of recent events--outside of the times he's been buried in Malfoy's body, his anxiety's been sky high over the case, over being back in New York, over what he's fucking feeling whenever he looks over at Malfoy's face, and he needs to talk to Freddie about how to calm himself the fuck down when he sees her tomorrow. Harry hasn't used her calming potion that often, not with Malfoy in his bed, but he does know that his resting startle reflex is still too high and his sleep is fitful. He's grateful that Jake's arranged for another Portkey for him, an early morning one that will zip him over to Paris and back before most of the MACUSA staff even makes it into the Woolworth. It'd been the one request Harry'd made of Jake that Jake hadn't hesitated on. Whatever tension there is between the two of them, Harry knows Jake's relieved that he's finally seeing a Mind Healer. Even if Harry also knows Jake's a bit resentful that it took Malfoy to push Harry into doing do. There's a part of Harry that feels guilty about that--and that only irritates Harry more.

After a few minutes of waiting to see if he can fall back asleep, Harry gently gets out of bed, sliding away from the warmth of Malfoy's sleeping body. He rummages through his still half-packed suitcase to find his running shoes and a pair of running shorts. His favorite Finches t-shirt is on top of the stack of folded shirts in the top drawer of his dresser. Harry hesitates when he accidentally pulls open the drawer beside it. Malfoy's shirts are neatly stacked inside, the faint scent of something citrusy wafting up from them. Harry fingers the edge of Malfoy's old Slytherin Quidditch t-shirt, faded and soft. It feels oddly right to have Malfoy's clothes beside his, to see Malfoy's empty black leather hold-all tucked in the corner, _DLM_ engraved into a silver tag set into the top. Harry glances back at the bed, at Malfoy's rumpled blond hair against the white pillows, at his pale shoulders and long arms almost hidden by the thick white duvet. One of Malfoy's long feet sticks out from beneath the bedlinens, dangling over the side of the mattress. Harry finds it charming that Malfoy can't sleep with both feet covered, and who would have ever thought back in their Hogwarts days that Harry Potter would know something so intimate about Draco Malfoy?

Impulsively, Harry pulls out Malfoy's Slytherin Quidditch t-shirt, shoving his Finches shirt back in his drawer. He pulls Malfoy's shirt over his head. Ron would have kittens if he saw him now, Harry thinks with a small smile, but Harry loves the feel of Malfoy's worn shirt against his skin, the perfect Malfoyness of the lemony scent of the cotton. Harry smoothes the shirt over the waistband of his shorts. It's a bit tight across Harry's shoulders, but Harry likes the way it looks in the mirror, the way it emphasises Harry's muscular arms and chest. He could use a tailoring charm on it, but he doesn't bother. Harry leaves a quick note in case Malfoy wakes up, and he slips out of the hotel room, letting the door snick shut behind him. According to his watch, it's just turned six.

The lobby's quiet when Harry steps out of the lifts and makes a beeline for the double doors by the concierge's station. The city's just starting to wake up, the first wave of workers coming out of the subway, as Harry jogs down Fulton Street and ducks across to avoid construction scaffolding. When he reaches Broadway and is about to cross against the light, a delivery van comes barreling through the otherwise empty crossing. Harry reminds himself to look left first, then right. He's thinks he's forgotten New York in the few weeks he'd been away, and he realises how much his city reflexes mean to him, the ones for this enormous island of buildings and the linked chain of neighborhoods sprawling around it on all sides.

Harry paces himself slow at first, warming up as he finishes the block to City Hall Plaza. He's a good runner, not as strong as Malfoy, but if he's honest, he's never seen anyone as fleet of foot as Malfoy is. Not even Jake. Malfoy's beautiful when he runs, graceful and elegant even when he's pushing himself. Harry half-wishes he'd woken Malfoy up to run with him; he knows Malfoy's been using the treadmills in the hotel's fitness centre instead of running the streets because Malfoy doesn't feel as if he knows them yet. Harry understands; he doesn't think it's hard to run Manhattan, but it can be overwhelming sometimes. 

Making a snap decision about his route, Harry takes the right fork, away from the Woolworth Building and toward the entrance to the Brooklyn Bridge. He picks up speed as he hits the wooden deck of the Bridge, his legs and breath synchronising until it's just him and the morning and the view across the river. There aren't that many people on the walkway at this hour, only a few other joggers and the lone cyclist or two. The temperature is still bearable--it didn't cool off overnight, but it's far more refreshing now than it will be in a few hours when his team gathers at MACUSA.

Harry lets his thoughts roll through his mind as the road passes under his feet. He's happy with what they've accomplished so far, he thinks. It's been slow, and when Harry files his weekly report with Gawain tomorrow, he's certain that the Head Auror will be annoyed, but not surprised. The Americans have never been incredibly good about sharing jurisdiction. Harry's team has done about as well as could be expected, really, with the access they've had and Graves keeping them away from Brighton Beach--and Harry's getting narked off about that. He's putting his fucking foot down today if Graves tries to fuck them over again. Harry doesn't give a damn if he causes an international incident. It's been nearly a week since the Dolohov sighting, and whilst there's nothing to indicate the man's left New York, America's a fucking big country. Once he's inside, he could end up anywhere. Harry's counting on the fact that everyone, even Dolohov, tends to be lazy and a creature of habit. Harry just hopes the fucked-up raid doesn't spook Dolohov, send the rat scurrying back to the sewers. 

But other than that, Harry thinks everyone on the team is adapting to the shift. Even Whitaker's starting to gel with the others, starting to let her guard down. Malfoy'd said she'd gone to Zabini's room for their little drinking party last night, and Harry's pleased about that. If a little jealous that he'd been left out, but he knows a team needs time to bond without their SIO present. He's glad they're doing so.

Harry looks out over the East River as his feet start the descent down from the Bridge's midpoint, his mind drifting to Malfoy. Things couldn't really be better with him, and that surprises Harry. He feels as if something's shifted between the two of them here in the City, drawn them closer together. Maybe, Harry thinks, it's just him realising how he feels about Malfoy, that snarled twist of emotion that takes his breath away every time he looks over at Malfoy in the incident room, in the hallway, in the lift, in the bloody street. Maybe it's the fact that Malfoy hadn't argued about moving his clothes into Harry's room. Maybe it's the way Malfoy's looking back at Harry, with an expression that sends shivers through Harry's body, wherever they might be. Just thinking about the blond tousle of hair in his hotel room and the firm curve of Malfoy's arse beside him this morning makes Harry want to run home, maybe pick up some good croissants on the way back to please Malfoy before taking him again, spread across his bed on the forty-ninth floor, curtains open, with the whole city as his witness.

There's a warm feeling in Harry's chest as he hits the Tillary Street exit from the Bridge. He jogs along Cadman Plaza and decides to take Henry Street down to Carroll Street and back up. The brownstones are quiet, the tree-lined streets shady and cool and so very different from the glass-and-steel canyons of Manhattan. On the way back, Harry cuts over to the Promenade on Montague, sweat sticking Malfoy's t-shirt to his shoulders. It'll need a good washing after this, and Malfoy will probably growl at him, but Harry doesn't care. He's needed to burn some things out of his soul for ages, and running is the best way that he's found to exorcise ghosts. He sprints the last bit to the outlook, then takes some time to stretch out his legs on the railings and low wooden benches overlooking Lower Manhattan.

Harry's surprised, but not entirely shocked when a well-built, blond runner approaches him. It reminds him of many mornings before, almost too familiar in a way for what's happened since.

"Hey, asshole, you're up early," Jake says, drawing up beside him. He's barely breathing hard. "What are you doing on my side of the river?" 

Harry shrugs, switching legs and trying to get his too taut hamstring to let go. "I didn't want to run up the West Side. I thought the Bridge might be nicer." 

If he's honest, Harry knew he might run into Jake, maybe even wanted to in a perverse way. Jake's normal running time's a bit later, and he didn't always do the Promenade--sometimes he ran down to Prospect Park. But still, Harry'd learnt this path from Jake and they'd run it many a morning together.

Jake eyes Harry for a moment, scowling. Then he says, "That calf muscle tear still bothering you?" Harry'd had an injury on a mission whilst they were in Luxembourg last December that'd healed badly, and he'd come close to needing tissue regrowth. 

"Yeah." Harry's slightly overwhelmed by the intimacy with which Jake knows him. His body remembers and responds, a flush of something hot going through him, even if his mind knows everything's different now. He looks away, out over the river. A ferry's going past. "It just twinges now and again."

"You know you need to get that looked at," Jake says, frowning at him, and for a moment it's like nothing has changed between them. He's still Jake's Harry and Jake's still Harry's Jake, and they're going to run back to Boerum Hill and end up in the shower together, fooling around for a few more minutes before they have to get dressed and go to work. Maybe even giving in and falling across the bed together, not caring if they're late. The ache of it hits Harry, hard. He knows how he feels about Malfoy, but he also knows there are moments when he misses Jake and the easiness of their relationship, especially when Jake's looking at him the way he is now, that furrow between his brow that tells Harry that Jake still cares, even if Harry's a shit who doesn't. "You could go to our Healers here."

Harry nods, a tightness in his throat. They both know he won't. He hates going to Healers. Jake steps closer, crowding Harry against the railing. Harry doesn't move away. 

"You're fucking stubborn sometimes, Harry Potter," Jake says quietly, and he touches Harry's face. There's a rawness in his voice, a pained warmth in his gaze. "You throw everything away for no reason, don't you?"

Harry's chest aches. "There was a reason," he murmurs.

"Malfoy." Jake's knuckle traces a circle over Harry's cheek. It's such a familiar touch that it takes Harry's breath away for a moment. 

Harry just looks at him, this man he'd thought he might fall in love with. Jake's a decent bloke, worth far more than Harry can give him. "I'm really sorry, Jake," he says, and he means it. Harry thinks he might have been happy with Jake, might have settled here in New York and had a good life with a good man. And then he'd had one moment with his childhood enemy, and everything Harry'd thought he wanted, everything Harry thought he was, underwent a seismic shift. 

And then Jake's thumb drags across Harry's bottom lip, and Harry breathes in. "Jake," he says, and he stops because he doesn't know what else to say. 

Jake gives him a wry, faint smile. "You're wearing his shirt, unless you suddenly switched House affiliation. He wore your clothes yesterday. Don't think I didn't notice." His fingers slide down Harry's jaw, tilting Harry's head back just a bit. "God, it kills me to see you two together sometimes," Jake says, and there's a hitch in his voice. "You've no goddamned idea how I felt about you, do you Harry?"

Harry glances away, the heat of Jake's hand burning into his skin. He ought to pull back. He can't. His fingers twist in the hem of Malfoy's old Quidditch t-shirt. "I know," Harry says, the words almost catching in the back of his throat. "I'm sorry."

They stand there silently for a moment, the sounds of the City muffled behind them, the slap of the river against the concrete of the piers below, the soft rumble of traffic picking up on the BQE beneath them. Harry looks up at Jake, and his mind is full of what-ifs, tinged with a faint whiff of regret. 

"You're really gone," Jake says, and Harry's surprised to see grief written across Jake's face. "You've really left me."

Harry blinks away the hot prickle in his eyes. "I didn't mean to," he says unhappily. "I just didn't think at first." He's never done this before. Never had to face someone he's left. Harry's breakups in the past have almost always been him walking away, not looking back, never having to face the aftermath. Only Ginny had been different, and they'd both made the decision to split. It hadn't just been Harry that time. Gin had one foot out the door already as well. Being Harry Potter's girlfriend after the war hadn't been what she'd expected. Or wanted. Harry'd never really blamed her for that. Not entirely.

Jake nods, and his hand cups Harry's cheek. "You're in love with him, aren't you?" There's a faint bitterness to his words. 

It takes Harry a moment, but he breathes out and says, "I think so."

"Were you ever in love with me?" Jake asks, and it's a harsh, quiet question. He's so close, and so warm, and Harry rests his forehead on Jake's collarbone. 

"I could have been." Harry's voice catches a bit. His hands settle on Jake's hips, and he's trembling, he realises when Jake's arms slide around him, pulling him closer. They stand together, and Harry wonders if he's mad to give this up, to walk away from someone like Jake. They could have been happy, and he'd gone and fucked it up. Thrown it all away.

For Malfoy.

Harry draws in a shuddering breath, and he thinks about Malfoy waiting for him, lying in his bed-- _their_ bed, sleepy and warm. He actually would do anything for Malfoy, Harry thinks. He hadn't felt that way about Jake. Or anyone really, other than Ron and Hermione.

"I really could have been," Harry says again, almost as if he's trying to convince himself. 

"That's not enough for me," Jake says, and Harry nods. 

"I know," Harry says. He pulls back, looks up at Jake. "I tried. I came here, and I tried, Jake." When he'd moved in with Jake, he'd fought the thoughts of Malfoy at first, the dreams of Malfoy that had woken him up in the middle of the night, Jake stretched out beside him beneath the coverlet. "But it's Malfoy," he says, as if Jake should understand what he means. 

Perhaps Jake does. Jake draws in a slow breath, then exhales, and Harry can't bear the struggle of emotions that twist across Jake's face. "You ought to start calling him Draco," Jake says. 

"It's not like that between us." Harry bites his lip. He can't explain to Jake that he needs the distance of last names to keep him from making a complete fool of himself. Malfoy has to be Malfoy to Harry. He can't let Malfoy know how he feels, can't expose himself that way. Harry's afraid to be that vulnerable. The day Malfoy rejects him--and at some point he will, Harry's certain--Harry doesn't know what the fuck he'll do. "We're not really the Harry and Draco sort, are we?"

Jake just looks at him, then huffs out a bitter laugh. "Jesus, Harry. You emotionally constipated Brits just--" He breaks off and shakes his head. His hands slide down Harry's back, settle on the small of Harry's back. It's a warm, careful touch that makes Harry's stomach flutter at past memories. "As much as it pains me to admit it, you're probably exactly the Harry and Draco sort. You're just too damn stupid to realise it."

"Maybe." Harry's not so certain, but Jake doesn't know the history between Malfoy and him, does he? Sometimes Harry marvels at the fragile truce they've built, at the way they've both moved past their schoolboy hatred. This must be what growing up is, Harry thinks.

Jake just watches him, and there's a deep sadness in his gaze that wrenches Harry's heart. "We could have been great, Harry Potter. Really fucking great." He drops his hands, and Harry misses the warmth of his touch through Malfoy's t-shirt. Jake sighs and steps away, sitting down on one of the benches, looking over the East River towards Manhattan and its jagged skyline. "Zabini hit on me the other night, you know."

Harry feels an inexplicable flare of jealousy. "Yeah?" He walks over, sits next to Jake. 

"Yeah." Jake gives him an amused smile. "Problem with that?"

"No." Harry hates the way Jake can read him. "Get out of my head."

Jake glances back out over the river, watching a boat go by. "I don't have to use Legilimency on you, Harry. Everything you think's written right across your face." He doesn't say anything for a moment. "You've got no right to be jealous."

"I know," Harry says again. "But it's strange to think about. You and him."

"Probably." Jake shakes his head. "I need to move on from you. Martine's right. I can't just sit here and pretend I'm all right with you and Malfoy." He looks over at Harry. "You broke my fucking heart, you know."

Harry bites his lip, feeling as if part of him's been scooped out. "I never wanted to."

"Doesn't mean you didn't." Jake sighs, then he looks over at Harry. His hand settles on Harry's, Jake's fingers twining through his. "Do one thing for me?"

"What?" Harry doesn't pull his hand away. He should probably. He knows that. But he remembers the first time he and Jake had strolled along the Promenade, hand in hand, on his first visit to New York. It'd been autumn, and the green trees behind them had been a riot of yellows and reds and oranges. 

Jake reaches his other hand across them both, his fingers brushing over Harry's jaw. "One for the road," Jake says quietly, and Harry just looks at him. "One last kiss, and I can finally let you go, you bastard."

There's a lump in Harry's throat. "All right," he says, and Jake leans in, brushes his lips against Harry's. He's careful, and something shifts in Harry, a profound, unexpected sorrow that wells up in him, makes him reach for Jake, his fingers tangling in his t-shirt, and hold him tight as he lets the kiss open up, deepen into a slow press of tongues and mouths and goodbyes. 

When Jake pulls back, Harry lets his hand fall, lets Jake sit silently for a moment, half-turned away, his fists pressed to his mouth, his gaze on the river. 

"Jake," Harry says, and Jake shakes his head. He stands, then looks down at Harry. 

"Adieu, Harry Potter," Jake says, his voice gentle but firm. "No more à bientôts for us, yeah?"

Harry takes a slow, uneven breath. "Adieu, Jake Durant," he says, a quiet melancholy settling over him. This is what it's like to end things, he realises. To actually say goodbye. To not run away, to look back, to see the pain in someone else's eyes. He wonders if it's fate that brought them both out here this morning at the same time, but he doesn't really believe in that sort of thing. But they couldn't have done this any place else. Not in MACUSA. Not in Jake's flat. Only here, with the East River bearing witness to their unfinished business.

Jake gives him a small smile and a tiny salute before he turns away, running back along the Promenade. Harry watches him go, and then he turns back to the river, watching it flow past, his elbows on his knees, his throat dry and tight. 

He doesn't move for a very long time. He can still feel the press of Jake's lips against his, and he closes his eyes, feeling a wash of sadness slip through him. He doesn't push it away. Not this time. Instead, Harry sits with his grief, lets it wrack his body, bring him to a hidden, lonely place he's been so terrified of for years. It's quiet. Overwhelming. Heavy. But Harry holds the feeling. Lets it just be. Lets the past few years slide off of him, grieves it as it goes.

And when he's ready, he stands up, feeling lighter. Calmer. He looks towards Manhattan, towards the buildings gleaming in the morning sun, and he knows his future's lying there, sprawled across a rumpled bed, hair mussed and lips waiting to be bitten. 

With a soaring heart, Harry runs to Malfoy, his trainers carrying him across already hot asphalt back to the man he knows he loves.

***

Jake stands beneath the hot pulse of the shower, his hands braced against the slick tile, his head bent, water pouring across his face, washing away the last few tears. He hasn't cried in the shower since he'd heard Ray and Kendra had been killed in Afghanistan back in '03; the last time before that had been when his mama died and he'd been twelve.

He lifts his face into the spray, his eyes squeezed shut. He'd run from the Promenade to Prospect Park, then back to his apartment, not giving a fuck if it meant he'd be late to work. He'd called Martine before he'd got in the shower, let her know to cover for him. Jake needs a bit of time to pull himself together before he goes back into the office, has to face Harry again.

Fuck, but that still aches, doesn't it? Harry'd pulled the scab off of their break-up, unstitched Jake just enough to let him fall apart, to let him realise that those feelings hadn't gone away. He knows Martine thinks he didn't really love Harry, and maybe she's right. Maybe she's being protective of Jake because no one else really is. Not even Jake. But Jake knows what he felt for Harry, how hard he'd fallen for the asshole, and he knows that it'd always been one-sided in a way. He'd loved Harry, would have done anything for Harry, but Harry hadn't loved him back. Not the way Jake had wanted him to. Harry'd cared about him. Probably still does, Jake thinks. In his own way, at least. But Harry'd never looked at Jake the way he looks at Malfoy, and seeing that here, watching Harry kiss Malfoy in the incident room yesterday, had goddamned broken what little was left of Jake's heart. 

Jake shuts off the shower and runs his hands over his wet head, squeezing the water out. He stands in the cooling tub, the steam starting to dissipate around him, and he stares blankly at the white tiles. He feels a bit hollowed out. Tired. But also a little relieved. He'd been holding on to Harry for too long, not knowing he was doing that. How could he not though? Their breakup had been so uncertain, so shut-down from Harry's side, and Jake hadn't even had the chance to run away and lick his wounds. He'd stayed because Hermione had asked him to and Blaise had needed him, and Jake hadn't wanted his own personal drama to destroy Blaise's life. So he'd played the martyr, like Martine's always accusing him of, and he'd stayed in London. Like a damn fool. 

Now Harry's given Jake a bit of closure, finally. 

Christ, he probably shouldn't have kissed him, Jake thinks. That was fucking stupid, but he'd needed to know. Needed to say goodbye. Needed to have that one moment when he could truly let Harry go, when he could walk away from who they were, what they'd been. 

Jake can now. Harry's not his any longer. Harry's set Jake free. 

It feels like shit in a way, but Jake also feels as if a fucking weight's been lifted off his shoulders. 

They could have worked, Jake thinks, stepping out of the shower and towelling himself off. He'd like to pretend they would never have, that Harry's too young, too immature, too selfish for Jake, but the fact is that they could have been good together. Jake could have made a life with Harry. Loved him in whatever way Harry was willing to let him. 

But they wouldn't have had what Harry and Malfoy have. Jake's not a fool. He's sat here, watched his ex fall in love with another man, and he's known. What Harry and Malfoy have is different. Jake envies them. He's wanted to be in love like that. Thought he could be with Harry. 

Goddamn, he'd been so stupid. 

Jake looks at himself in the mirror, takes in his tired eyes and drawn mouth. He doesn't know if he'll ever feel like trying again. If he wants to put himself out there the way he had with Harry. 

He thinks of Blaise, with that mocking smile of his that goes straight to Jake's prick, whether or not he wants to admit it. And that's fucking unsettling, really. Jake thinks he'd be a fool to take on another British guy, one Harry's age. Jake's too damned old for them all. Six years can be a lifetime when you're in your twenties. He remembers that all too well. 

But maybe a good fuck is all he needs. It's not as if Blaise has put anything else on offer, and Jake misses sex, misses the way it feels to press into another man's body, to hear that soft hitch in his breath, see the widening of his eyes. 

As he casts a shaving charm, Jake wonders how different it would be with Blaise. If he'd remind him of Harry. Jake thinks he wouldn't, that Blaise might wipe away those memories. Replace them with something new. 

Jake thinks of Blaise the other night, crouched between Jake's thighs, his mouth moving against Jake's, lips soft and warm and oh so pliant. The charm slips, nicks his jaw, and Jake swears, wiping away a smear of blood. He stares at his reflection, at the flush that's coming up over his cheeks at the image of Blaise Zabini spread beneath him, gorgeous and eager and desperate for Jake's touch. 

Fuck. He finishes shaving, washes the remnants of the foam from his face, then dries off. His prick's half-swollen, and it takes a full minute of slow breathing to settle himself down. 

"You're a goddamn idiot, Jake Durant," he says to himself in the mirror, then he shakes his head, walking into his bedroom to get dressed. 

Jake takes the subway in. He doesn't feel like waiting for a Floo connection or Apparating to the Chambers Street Apparition point. He wants to be surrounded by No-Majs, to be lost in his own thoughts for the twenty minutes it takes him to catch a C train from Hoyt-Schermerhorn to Fulton Street. He sits pressed up against the arm of the bench, swaying into the small Puerto Rican woman next to him as the train takes a curve. 

"Sorry," Jake says, half-lost in thought, and she gives him an uncertain smile.

He doesn't see Harry when he gets in. Harry's team are in the incident room with him, pouring over files in preparation for their trek out to Brighton Beach this afternoon. Jake knows he'll have to go along, but he'll deal with that when the time comes. For now, he takes the files on Dimitri Godunov that Espinoza hands him. He'll be taking point with Goldstein for the interview. Graves has, albeit reluctantly, given them permission to bring Godunov in and sweat him over the connections to the warehouse Goldstein insists Godunov has, although Jake's certain Godunov'll have high-ticket legal representation and his wealth will be a buffer to anything they can try to pin on him. Still, Graves tapped Jake to be the team representative with Tony, because he's properly MACUSA. If it leaves Harry shuffling through files in the incident room, well, so much the better, Jake thinks. He needs a little space from Harry this morning. 

Besides, Jake's all for drawing investigative attention away from Eddie. And that's one interview Graves isn't going to let Jake get one foot near. 

"You okay?" Martine asks when she stops by his office with two cups of coffee in hand. She passes one to him. "You sounded like shit on the phone."

Jake hesitates, considering. "Yeah," he says after a moment. "Better than I was."

Martine studies his face, then she nods. "You look a bit…" She gives him a smile. "A bit more like my Jake."

"I am," Jake says, and he realises she's right. He feels more himself than he has since he went to London.

"Good," Martine says, and she seems a bit relieved. Jake hadn't realised how much he was worrying her. She heads for the door. "I've got a few more files to sort through with Alma. We'll talk at lunch?"

Jake nods, and she's gone. He leans back in his chair and breathes, marvelling at the calmness he feels. His heart still hurts. He doesn't think he's going to get past that any time soon, but there's a stillness to it, an odd peace that makes Jake think that it's not going to overwhelm him. Not the way it has been. He hadn't even known how shattered he'd been. Now he does, and it's a fucking relief, he thinks, to have it a little behind him.

At eleven, Espinoza knocks on his door. "Goldstein's waiting for you, boss," she says. "Down at VIP interrogation. Godunov's on his way."

"Thanks." Jake pulls together his files, then grabs his jacket from the back of his chair. Espinoza goes back to her work, and Jake strides down the long, plush carpeted hallway of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, studiously avoiding the incident room that Harry's taken over. 

"Jake, there you are." Goldstein's clipped, British tones ring out down the corridor. God, Jake thinks. He can't wait for them all to go back to London, and then he thinks of Blaise looking up at him, his body slotted perfectly between Jake's thighs.

Well. Most of them.

"Hey, Tony," Jake comes in closer, looking for some sort of vibe from Goldstein. He's never spent a lot of time with the man, though Jake'd met him in Unspeakable briefings whilst he was at the British Ministry. Goldstein seems a decent enough sort, although Jake's curious about what's going on between him and Parkinson. Their argument in the hallway yesterday's already spread throughout most of the MACUSA DMLE, with Espinoza putting good money on them having fucked at some point. Jake thinks that's an easy bet, based on the way Parkinson was looking at Goldstein when he walked into Graves' office. 

Goldstein's dressed in a dark suit, complete with waistcoat, and a lilac silk tie, and Jake has to wonder how he manages to look well tailored in this heat. Jake's having trouble enough with a button-down and linen trousers and a blue-striped seersucker jacket, and he was raised in Louisiana. He wants to be in something cooler, but it wouldn't do to meet an influential suspect in board shorts and Adidas slides. "Any news from the front desk?"

"He's on his way up." Goldstein's smile is a bit thin, Jake thinks.

"So, good Unspeakable, bad Unspeakable?" Jake asks. They'll have to see when they get in the room--Tony's been following Godunov, so he has more information, but sometimes it's good to have distance, too, when you're working a suspect over. 

Goldstein shrugs. "Sure. If nothing else pushes him over the edge, we can press him on his whereabouts. Although I expect we'll need to tread softly given his solicitor."

Jake nods. He'd rather not have an interrogation misconduct charge to answer this soon on returning from London. The rules for Unspeakables are a bit looser in interrogation than Aurors, particularly in matters involving a domestic security breach, but Jake's still careful. This is a mixed Auror-Unspeakable investigation, after all, not to mention the complications having two separate national jurisdictions brings to the mix. He'd be willing to bet Dragots to doughnuts that the British Ministry is going to want every _i_ dotted and _t_ crossed, given they've got Luxembourg breathing down their back too. Jake had glanced a copy of the _Prophet_ Espinoza had handed him with his files this morning, and the first three pages are filled with accusations about Auror misconduct. Not to mention suggestions that an Auror team comprised of Slytherins might have been to blame for some of the more egregious outrages. Like the deaths of suspects in custody. Evidently Arnie Peasegood hadn't been enough for the British press; they're casting their eye for anyone to blames. Jake's not surprised Robards and Shacklebolt had wanted Harry's team out of the way. He wonders if they'd suspected this was coming. He wouldn't put it past them, to be honest. 

"Unspeakable Durant?" The young duty officer comes in, her tight, black spiral-plaited braids tied up in a neat knot on her head. "They're ready for you." 

"Thanks, Shayla," Jake says. "Do you happen to have the name of the lawyer?" He's read the brief that Paloma and Tim sent over, and he hasn't really got a feel for this suspect yet. He knows that Godunov is smart enough not to be directly caught in anything, unlike his own fool of a brother.

Shayla frowns, a furrow creasing her brown forehead. "I think he said Raymont Treatham? Hold on, I have it here on the sheet." Shayla flips through her paperwork. "Yeah. Treatham. Sorry, sir."

As Jake remembers from earlier stints as a witness for the prosecution, Raymont Treatham is a rather famous wizarding trial attorney, a partner from Treatham, Chelsea, and Burke. If Godunov has retained a local firm--and a fucking good one at that--he expects to be charged in New York.

Goldstein raises an eyebrow. "Local?" He tugs at the pristine white cuffs of his shirt, pulling them out a bit beneath his charcoal suit jacket.

Jake nods. "Pretty damn near the top of the heap. Expensive as shit."

"Not surprising," Goldstein says with a contemptuous scowl. "Dimitri always thinks he can buy himself out of anything."

Shayla leads them to the room and closes the door. She'll stand outside and come to help if they need it. When Jake and Goldstein walk in, their suspect is seated already. Raymont Treatham has an almost as opulent bespoke suit as his client, but he's lacking the million dollar smile and the aura of amusement. Jake doesn't like Dimitri Godunov from the moment he lays eyes on him. He has a sense that he toys with his prey before he kills it.

"Well, well," Godunov says, leaning back a little and looking at his lawyer. "They sent the big guns." The mocking way he says it sets Jake's teeth on edge.

Jake steps out of the way, letting Goldstein come into view. Godunov's eyes narrow. "Hello, Dimitri," Goldstein says, and it's only then that Jake realises that Goldstein's coming out of undercover. He's curious as to who made that decision, if Goldstein'd had to run it past Hermione first. A twist of sadness goes through Jake. He wonders if he's going to lose Hermione now too. He hopes not, although he'd understand if she pulled away. Harry's her friend more than he is. He knows Ron'll take Harry's side. He expects that. But if Hermione stopped returning his calls, Jake thinks that would sting a little too much. Fuck, but he's complicated his life, hasn't he?

"I wondered if you were a cop," Godunov says with a sneer. "You always seemed a little bit too squeaky clean, Tony."

Goldstein just looks at Godunov. Jake admires his calm, but then he's yet to come across a British Unspeakable who could be easily flustered. 

Jake sets the recording charm. MACUSA uses one that captures video as well as audio, dumping it directly into the servers. Jake suspects Espinoza'll be listening in from her terminal. 

"I'm Unspeakable Jacob Bouvier Durant, Unspeakable and Legilimens with the MACUSA Federal Bureau of Covert Vigilance. Badge number 59100354BFT. My colleague is Unspeakable Anthony Goldstein from the British Ministry of Magic, Department of Mysteries," Jake says as they sit down. He's decided he's taking the initiative since this is his damn building, no matter how long he's been away. "It's Thursday, July sixth, two thousand and six. We're here to speak with Dimitri Petrovich Godunov of Chicago, Illinois. No charges have been filed; this is a friendly little discussion, wouldn't we say, Tony?"

Goldstein leans back in his chair. "Absolutely."

Neither Godunov nor his lawyer look impressed. 

"Let's get on with this, Unspeakable Durant," Treatham says, flipping open his leather portfolio. He takes a pair of reading glasses from his pocket and slides them on his nose, then pulls out an expensive Mont Blanc, charmed, Jake's certain, to never run out of ink. "My client's here as a courtesy, nothing more, and if necessary, I'll be more than willing to file a complaint about Auror harassment of Mr Godunov." He gives Jake a cold look over the rim of his reading glasses. "So keep that in mind when you ask your questions."

"Wouldn't expect anything else of you, Raymont," Jake says with a tight smile. The familiarity makes Treatham scowl, which is exactly the reaction Jake was hoping for. He looks over at Godunov. "So why don't you tell us a little about your business here in New York, Mr Godunov?"

Godunov shrugs and crosses an ankle over his knee. "My family's company, Godunov Imports, is registered on the Wizarding Securities Index, if you care to look it up." He gives Jake a wide, bland smile. "Potions and ingredients, mostly, with the occasional artefact when we find interesting ones. Been in business for a hundred and fifty years now, and we're quite good at what we do. Pulled in almost 700 million Dragots last year alone. Our flagship store's in Chicago, of course, but we have a Manhattan outpost in Midtown, as well as shops in London's Diagon Alley, Paris and Rome. Berlin's set to open next year, and Tokyo the year after."

"Are you suggesting that all of your business is openly traded on the WSI?" Goldstein asks, and the venom in his voice surprises Jake. He gives Goldstein a sharp look, sending him a quick mental jab to pull it back, and Goldstein relaxes back into his chair. His mouth's still tight.

"My client refuses to answer that," Treatham says. He's a sharp-nosed wizard with a high brow and thick, curly brown hair that's going grey at the temples. He leans forward on his elbows. "Mr Godunov's been forthright about the extent of his family holdings."

Jake takes a breath. It's going to be one of those interrogations, he just knows it. He shouldn't be surprised. Treatham has quite the reputation amongst the Auror force. "Would your client be willing to clarify whether he's in New York on business or pleasure?"

To Jake's surprise, Godunov answers before his lawyer can protest. "A little bit of both." Godunov smiles, and it's feral and sharp and directed straight at Goldstein. Jake wonders what the history there is--he knows barely anything about Goldstein's undercover work, but he can tell there's no love lost between the two men.

"Where were you last night, Mr Godunov?" Jake continues, sensing Goldstein tense at his side.

"What purpose does that question serve?" Treatham's pen is flying across his pad of paper, leaving behind thick, dark strings of inky text. 

Jake leans forward, his gaze fixed on Godunov, rather than his lawyer. He wants to see if Godunov has any reaction to him saying, "We conducted a raid on a warehouse in Brighton Beach that had Godunov Imports listed as the current owner."

"Did you find anything there?" Treatham looks up at Jake, his face calm. Jake's fairly certain Treatham knows exactly what--and whom--they did and didn't find in the warehouse. 

"Nothing much," Jake admits. He can feel the stillness coming from both men. They're hiding something, that much he goddamned knows. "But we're curious, all things considered. So, Mr Godunov, care to tell me where you might have been last night?"

Godunov smiles, and his gaze flicks over towards Goldstein. "Private party in the Hamptons."

"Do you have an alibi for your whereabouts?" Goldstein demands. He's keeping his anger in check, but barely. Jake watches him from the corner of his eye. If he needs to, he'll pull Goldstein from the interview. 

Treatham starts to protest, but Godunov raises a hand. "I was at the Fawleys' house in Bridgehampton. Daisy does a lovely Fourth of July bash. Surprising for a Brit, but that family's quite delightful as a whole, aren't they?"

Goldstein inhales through his nose, a harsh, rasping sound in the noise-dampened room.

"Can anyone verify your attendance?" Jake asks, curious about the battle of stares going on between Goldstein and Godunov.

Godunov settles back in his chair, looking distinctly bored. "If you have to know, I spent the evening with Pansy Parkinson. She's working with you, correct?" He looks straight at Jake. "I'm sure she'll be able to verify my whereabouts." His smile is crooked and cold. "For most of the night, in fact."

Jake thinks Goldstein's going to leap over the table. The waves of hostile rage he's giving off are impressive. Espinoza's right, he thinks. Parkinson and Goldstein are--or were--definitely having some sort of intimate relationship. He wonders if Harry knows. If not, he's about to fucking find out, Jake thinks. About Goldstein _and_ Godunov, and Parkinson better have some fucking way to explain why she's able to alibi a goddamn suspect or Graves'll rake her over the coals. Jake doesn't think Robards will be thrilled either when he hears about this.

"All right." Jake says, and he presses his boot against Goldstein's foot. "We'll check it out." He pretends to look down at his file, taking a moment to send a cool wave of calming images Goldstein's way. He's practically vibrating with fury. "Mr Godunov, do you have anything to do with Edward Durant or Les Harkaway?"

Godunov flicks a piece of fluff from his sleeve. "I rarely do business with individuals. So, unless they own hedge funds or run campaigns, I doubt we've shared many social interactions." He eyes Jake, and there's something in his shrewd gaze that sets Jake's policing sensibilities jangling. "I do try to avoid the more common riffraff."

Now Jake wants to punch him, although part of his brain is supplying that Godunov's not saying he _doesn't _know them. And the way Godunov's looking pleased with himself makes Jake think that he knows exactly who Eddie and Harkaway are. He tries to let his rage seep away.__

__"So you _have_ met my brother, then?" Jake asks, watching Godunov's face. His jaw sets. "Eddie and I were both raised to be goddamned proud of our riffraff heritage." _ _

__Godunov looks surprised for a moment, perhaps by Jake's utter lack of shame. Jake doesn't give a damn. His father's a fucking criminal and his mother was pure bayou witch, and she'd held her head up high as she walked the streets of Thibodaux. Fuck if Jake was going to let this goddamned priggish little fucker make him ashamed of her._ _

__"My client refuses to answer that." Treatham taps his pen against his pad, scowling at Jake. Godunov sits back in his chair and smiles, a smug look on his privileged Ilvermorny-educated face that Jake wants to punch off._ _

__Goldstein asks a few more questions that lead to buttfuck nowhere, each one deflected expertly by Treatham to Godunov's obvious amusement. As far as Jake can tell, he and Tony both want to take turns assaulting the suspect, but they're no closer to information than they were when they started. The dig about Eddie and also the comment about Parkinson indicate how well Godunov knows who they are, and that in and of itself makes Jake suspect the hell out of him. No one does that much research on Aurors or Unspeakables without a fucking reason._ _

__Treatham closes his portfolio. "This is a waste of my client's time, and unless you're prepared to charge him--" Godunov laughs at that, and even Treatham allows himself a thin smile. "We're finished. Mr Godunov's been more than helpful, as I'm sure you'll note in his file."_ _

__As they stand up, Godunov says, "Please send my best to Graves. I'm looking forward to seeing him and Mel at the Regatta." The look on his face is pure sadism, Jake thinks. Fucker. Goddamn, but he wants to shove that prick into the nearest wall._ _

__Instead Jake grimaces and tries to make it look like a smile. He ends the recording spell. No sense in forcing Godunov to stay. They've got fuckall on him that'll stick, other than a healthy dose of suspicion, and Godunov and Treatham both know it._ _

__"God, what a giant fucking wanker," Goldstein mutters under his breath as Godunov and Treatham leave through the heavy door._ _

__"Well, that was a disaster," Jake says, turning to Goldstein, whose face is almost bright red._ _

__Goldstein shakes his head. "He knew everything we were going to ask." His mouth tightens. Privately, Jake suspects Godunov knew a bit more than that. He's got the strong sense that Goldstein's interest in Parkinson isn't unknown to Godunov, and Jake's damn curious, for one, what the basis for that rivalry is._ _

__"And he knows my brother," Jake says, thinking he might pop over to Greenpoint to check on the bastard. All of the shit going down in the British holding cells has Jake feeling more than a little protective of Eddie. He doesn't think something like that'll happen here, but Christ, they didn't think it could happen in London either, and look what Peasegood had done. Jake closes his file and stands up, following a furious Goldstein out of the interview room. Plus, from what he can tell, Godunov is dangerous. Very, very dangerous. He'd rather Eddie not be mixed up with him. But Eddie always was an idiot, Jake thinks, with no damn common sense. Jake hopes he can keep him out the fire with this one._ _

__Graves is waiting outside, and Jake can tell he's been watching the recording live. He nods to Goldstein, then quirks his finger at Jake. "Durant, a word."_ _

__Jake walks over, unsettled by the grim look on Graves' face. "Tom?"_ _

__"Your report you sent back from London," Graves says. "You mentioned Malfoy was an Occlumens."_ _

__"Yeah." Jake scratches the back of his neck. "Why?"_ _

__Graves looks up and down the near-empty hall. "Walk with me."_ _

__Bemused, Jake falls into step with the Director of Magical Security. Graves doesn't say anything for a moment, not until they turn down another, entirely empty corridor. He stops, his hands in his pocket._ _

__"How good of an Occlumens is he?" Graves asks finally._ _

__Jake's not certain where this is going. "One of the best I've seen. Absolutely natural, and almost undetectable unless you recognise the signs. I told him once we could use someone with his skills here." Jake had meant it at the time, and he still does. Whatever differences he may have with Malfoy over Harry, the man's a damned skilled Auror and his neuromagical skills are top-notch. Frankly, Jake can't believe Malfoy's never had official training. He doesn't know what the fuck the British Ministry is thinking. Then again, he doesn't remember seeing Malfoy's Occlumency listed anywhere in his file. Probably a good thing in the long run. Prejudice against the Slytherins runs deep in the British services. Malfoy's smart not to give them anything more that they can use against him._ _

__Graves nods. "I thought so. I've tried to push a bit too, but I haven't gotten far." Graves is a good Legilimens. Almost as good as Jake, and Jake's not really surprised Graves has tried to get past Malfoy's defences. Graves rocks back on his heels. "I want to train him." He looks at Jake. "In Legilimency."_ _

__"Why?" That _does_ surprise Jake. "His Occlumency alone--"_ _

__"We're low on Legilimens," Graves says bluntly. "Between people assigned out to other jurisdictions and the ones who we've embedded with the military and other extrajudicial forces--" Jake shudders at that, remembering his own time in those camps. "We don't have adequate personnel. And I want someone with at least a little Legilimency training interviewing your brother."_ _

__Jake's head shoots up. "Eddie? What the--" He catches himself in time. "Eddie's got nothing, Tom. We all know that."_ _

__Graves just gives him an even look, and Jake glances away. "I'm telling you what I want, Jake." His tone holds no chance of argument. "Malfoy's an Occlumens and if you have a talent for one neuromagical skill, you can develop the other. At least well enough to be able to suss out a…" He hesitates, then says, "A complicated relationship with the truth. So take him under your wing this weekend. Teach him the basics, and we'll see how he does in a room with Eddie." Graves holds up his hand before Jake can protest. "I can't use you with Eddie. You damn well know that won't hold up in court, and you ought to be glad I'm keeping you on the case for now. Your brother's a shithead, and he's involved with something he should have stayed the hell away from."_ _

__That's not something Jake can argue. His shoulders slump. "I don't know that I'm the best person to work with Malfoy."_ _

__"You're the only person I have," Graves says. "So whatever your issue with the man, get it under control. Do I make myself clear?"_ _

__Jake nods. "Absolutely."_ _

__"Good." Graves claps him on the shoulder. "Start in as soon as you can."_ _

__Does he have any other choice, Jake thinks, as Graves walks away. He leans against the wall and closes his eyes. Shit. Shit. Shit. His head thuds against the plaster._ _

__This isn't going to go well. Fuck. It's going to be a goddamned disaster. Malfoy's going to fucking kill him, Jake thinks. And he'll probably be well within his rights. And then there's the matter of what Harry will think, and Jake is just not going to deal with that right now._ _

__With a sigh, Jake pushes himself off the wall and heads up to check on Parkinson and how she's getting along with Central Lab Services._ _

__What the fuck else is he going to do?_ _

____

***

For the first time since they arrived in New York, Pansy feels like she's properly in her element. Espinoza had shown her to a part of the MACUSA lab, where a friendly but quiet lab tech named Josephine guided her to an open space on the lab bench. The lab's gorgeous--all shining stainless steel and glass, beautiful cauldrons in an impossible range of sizes, cabinets of reagents and some very exciting analysis apparatus Pansy has no cause to use for her current project, but wants to examine as soon as possible. Pansy knows this is not the main forensic facility--that's out in Jamaica, Queens, and she has to beg Potter soon to find a reason to send her there. Or perhaps get Draco to suck his cock and make him promise. That might work too, she thinks. She's not above bribery and whoring Draco out if it gives her a chance to see a state-of-the-art lab. Merlin, but she wishes Robards would fund magiforensics more generously back home. Or that Jonesey had the bollocks to push him on it.

After showing Pansy her space on the bench, Josie--she asked to be called by a nickname immediately, and Pansy remembers this is common in the States, even amongst complete strangers--went back to a forensics series she was working on in the next room, leaving Pansy to meditate in peace on the ill deeds of one Edward Fontenot Durant. She's managed fill out orders for samples of the snake root, the boomslang, and the thyme tincture from Central Lab Services' warehouse using the pink forms Josie showed her how to submit. The samples should all arrive after lunch, the witch in charge of potion ingredient orders promised. The mandrake will be in tomorrow, and the witch was apologetic, but there was no way to expedite it. It has to come through a special process.

And Pansy didn't even ask for Soul Grass. She knows its properties well enough for now, and she'll have to reconstruct how it might be affecting the reactions from her own analytical notes. She's has part of them with her, and Jonesey can email the rest, she thinks. She hopes he knows how to email. Shah can help him if not. And if she needs to work with Soul Grass in the lab later, she'll requisition some directly through Graves' office, but Pansy has a feeling that she's only seeing part of the puzzle right now, and she wants to put together more of the pieces before she asks for a favour. Or a highly restricted potions ingredient.

Pansy's setting up her bench for a series of interactivity tests, gathering the standard reagents for unknown potions, when the lab door flies open, almost slamming into the wall behind. When she realises who it is, Pansy's glad that she's the only one in this area right now. 

Tony's face is dark with fury. "Pansy Iphigenia Rahel Parkinson."

He's really angry, Pansy thinks. He never uses her Hebrew name unless he's angry.

"Yes, Anthony Tiberius Shmuel Goldstein?" She pushes her lab glasses further up her nose, and smoothes down her white coat. "Did you have something to ask me or are you just making a nuisance of yourself?"

Tony goes to grab her by the arm, but Pansy jerks away from him. 

"Don't touch me, Tony, or I'll have half of MACUSA in here. I mean it." Pansy's bluffing, but she will do it if she has to.

"Then you better sodding tell me why the _fuck_ my suspect just said you spent all of yesterday evening with him." Tony's face is contorted with rage, and Pansy's sure he means Godunov. She vaguely remembers Potter briefing them on the fact that Durant and Tony were leading that interrogation this morning. Pansy'd been more interested in her chance to play here in the lab.

Pansy folds her arms over her chest, annoyed at the masculine pissing contest Godunov's interrogation has clearly become. "We were at the same party, Tony. You know bloody well I'd go to Daisy's on the Fourth. I'm surprised you weren't there."

"I wasn't invited." Tony scowls, and Pansy thinks maybe that particular social snub's annoying him as well. Well, sod that. She's not responsible for Daisy's hostess decisions. "I think your sister was worried I would mess up her business with Godunov. Or perhaps her pleasure."

"Pardon," Pansy says in her sternest tones. She scowls at him. "I'll thank you not talk about my sister that way, Tony."

"Oh, you didn't know she was Godunov's mistress, did you?" Tony eyes her cruelly, a savage twist to his mouth. "They were fucking up until recently, you know. Daisy only called it off because she was worried Eustace would find out. Godunov's been telling everyone."

Pansy wants to deck him. She really does. The only reason she doesn't act on her urge is that she'd break too much lab equipment. And Tony would probably restrain her, which she does not want. "So you came all this way to share nasty gossip about my older sister. Ta ever so. I see why they pay you for your skills."

She doesn't mean thank you. She means fuck you. She even says it in her head. _Fuck you, Tony Goldstein, and not in a pleasant way._ She's had enough of Tony and his bloody self-righteousness. He used her to get to her father, and she'll never forgive him for that.

Ever.

"Pansy." Tony's voice is tight. "Godunov said you were with him most of the night. Most of the night. Is this true?"

Pansy loosens her shoulders and shifts her weight. If she has to throw a punch, she will. She's certainly angry enough, and she's been training with Potter for weeks now. Her wand is in her lab coat, and the stools could be dangerous if she could levitate one into Tony's sanctimonious face. She also has a host of reagents on hand, although sadly nothing caustic. She'll have to make do with her wit.

"Are you asking me as part of an investigation, or are you playing the jealous lover, which, by the way, you have no right to. At all." Pansy's ire is up, and God help Tony. Pansy doesn't calm down easily. She gets that from her mother.

Tony huffs, turns away, then turns back. "You know what, fuck it. I'll haul you into an interrogation room. You're a British national. They can hold you here for quite a while without cause, you know. One word from me, and they'll have you up on national security charges."

Pansy's eyes narrow. "You utter knob. Firstly, I am here on Her Majesty's Magical Service, same as you, so I have a modicum of protection. And secondly, Harry Potter would have your bollocks in a heartbeat. If he can find them, you gormless piece of shite. So don't come into my lab and threaten me with detention just because you think I fucked Dimitri Godunov."

Tony tenses. "You--"

"And you know what? I wish I had," Pansy says, her voice rising. She's shaking with fury. "I'd rather have fucked that wanker than you, you worthless pile of slime. Get the fuck out right now."

They've quite an audience in the hall now, a tech, the delivery witch and an Auror or two. Pansy hopes Durant shows up and drags Tony away. She wants to send him out into the hall in pieces.

"Fine," Tony spits out, almost unable to look at her. He turns to the door, and she hefts a small glass cauldron at him, ready to send it flying past his head, hot tears prickling her eyes.

And then Tony has her pinned to the lab bench almost before she can speak, the cauldron tumbling from her fingers onto the tabletop, bouncing once against the cushioning charm, then rolling onto its side. Pansy can feel Tony's erection pressing into her thigh. A shiver runs down her spine.

He leans in, low and dangerous notes in his voice. "Did you fuck him?"

Pansy is almost overcome with the desire to shag Tony, here and now. She hates herself, but she still wants him, even though she hates him. 

"No." She looks into Tony's golden eyes, her heart breaking into a thousand tiny pieces. "I don't whore about as much as I used to."

He surveys her body then, the lace of her bra peeking through the vee of her lab coat. He presses a swift kiss to her neck, smelling her hair. "Good."

He disentangles himself and walks out, just as Jake Durant is opening the door with a put-upon look on his face.

Pansy's knees are weak, and her underwear is sopping wet. Fuck, but she hates herself. 

"Is there a problem, Parkinson?" Durant asks, looking back at Tony's stiff shoulders as he disappears down the hall. 

"Not at all." She goes back to her lab bench and tries to collect herself whilst pretending to examine her testing array. She doesn't care that she's buggering up even the simplest diagnostic setup. She just needs to calm down, and it will be all right.

Durant's just watching her, a curious look on his face, and Pansy turns away, trying not to cry in front of him. She won't give him--or anyone--that satisfaction.

She throws out her most recent sets, and starts again.

***

Draco's tired and hot from scanning the Brighton Beach boardwalk all fucking afternoon. There are tons of beachgoers, even on a weekday, and it's sweltering, sunny and humid, and Draco's so damned glad he left his jacket back in the incident room. It's bad enough to be out in a dress shirt and a tie, and Draco's given in to the heat and rolled his sleeves up his forearms and loosened his blue silk tie. Martine'd told him to take it off, but Draco's thinks it's a bit unseemly to go that far, even if Blaise has pulled his off and Durant and Potter haven't bothered in the first place. Frankly, he thinks Pansy should be thrilled that she's tucked away in a lab with cooling charms so strong she's had to bring a cardigan from the hotel. Cow.

The rest of them have split into teams, each with their own cultural guide. Althea, Blaise and Espinoza have formed one group, Draco and Martine another, and Potter and Durant are leading them all. Draco's a bit jealous, he'll admit, but there's a retired Auror with them, helping them to navigate New York's Little Odessa without completely buggering things up. It hasn't taken Draco long to discover that Brighton Beach has a culture of its own, one that's far less American than Muscovite. He's grateful for the MACUSA translation charms; no one they've spoken to so far has used more than a word of two of English, and Draco's fairly certain they would have just walked away if the charm wasn't working both ways. It's odd to hear himself speak fluent Russian, though, and with a near-perfect accent. That's one charm that MACUSA's miles ahead of the Ministry on, Draco thinks. The British ones are a bit clunkier and less attuned to the nuances of regional slang. 

"Spasibo," Draco says to a woman who's shaken her head at the pictures he's shown her of Dolohov, Harkaway, and Eddie Durant. She moves on down the street, pushing her double pram with two toddlers strapped inside. A Crup bounces along behind her after eyeing Draco's leather brogues hungrily. Really, Draco thinks, if he ever does get a pet, he thinks he'll go for a Kneazle. At least Millie's likes him.

He walks back over to Martine and Inna, their cultural guide, a slim but solidly built Russian woman from the MACUSA records office who seems to know everyone in the shops they go into. Her bright ginger hair's twisted up into topknot even Pansy'd be impressed by, and Draco's fairly certain it's not her natural colour. Her sundress is bright yellow and white, the straps narrow over her lightly tanned and heavily freckled shoulders under a hand-crocheted cotton shawl.

"Once again, no joy," Draco says, closing the file jacket on the photos.

Inna shrugs and leans against the railing, lighting up a fag with a discreet snap of her fingers. "I told you they're not going to talk to cops. Tourists from the City aren't going to know anything, and Russians aren't going to fucking trust you." She blows out a stream of smoke and offers the cigarette to Martine, who takes it with a grateful sigh. Martine's wearing a short sleeved white shirt and a pair of black jeans. Draco doesn't know how she's managed to look so cool and crisp even after being out here for hours.

"You're not supposed to be smoking on the beach," Martine says, and Inna just shrugs. Martine grins at her. "Yeah, I know. Russians. You do what you want."

"It's true though." Inna looks out over the waves rolling grey and frothy into the shore. "I grew up here. My parents immigrated back in the Seventies from Petersburg. Things were getting a bit difficult for wizards then. They brought half my family with them."

"And the other half?" Draco asks. He finds a small patch of shade and stands in it. He's had to renew his sun charms several times and he's still sweating. It reminds him of Spain, or maybe Sardinia. But the American heat's different--more humid, more tropical. Still, the only other place he's seen so much pasty skin on display has been, ironically enough, Brighton Pier in England on the first warm and sunny weekend of late spring.

Inna glances over at him. "They ended up somewhere." She frowns. "Bulgaria, maybe. I've never met them, but my mother keeps up by owl."

Martine taps the ash off her cigarette and offers it to Draco. What the hell, he thinks. He takes a drag off it, the acrid sharpness of the unfiltered fag catching in the back of his throat. He coughs, his eyes watering, and he hands it back. Martine just shakes her head and smiles. As much as Draco wants to dislike her just by virtue of her friendship with Durant, he can't. She's too damn funny and she reminds him too much of what Millie would be if she had a French Canadian accent. 

"Well," Martine says after a moment, squinting into the bright summer sky. "Fuck the beach, I say." She glances over at Inna, handing her back the cigarette. "Want to try the Avenue again?"

"Might as well," Inna says, and she takes one last drag on the fag before stubbing it out on the metal railing, then flicking it over into the sand. Draco frowns at her; Inna obviously doesn't give a damn. 

They trudge back to the dark tunnel of shops beneath the elevated tracks. A train rumbles and rattles above their heads as they wait for a green light to cross the street; even Inna won't risk crossing against the light here. A tiny bead of sweat rolls down behind Draco's ear, and Martine leans up behind him, and casts a quick cooling charm for him, the tip of her wand only barely brushing his hip. 

Draco glances back at her. "Thanks," he says, and she gives him a small smile. 

"You ought to have seen me my first summer in New York," she says. "I thought Boston was horrible, but there's something about the heat here that nearly did me in." She wrinkles her nose. "Even the cooler days feel like walking through wet swamp sometimes."

Draco catches sight of Potter and Durant on a street corner across the way, next to a fur storage store, its metal gate shut tight and padlocked. Their cultural guide, Alexei Stepanov, is a few shops down at a bodega, his salt-and-pepper head bent down towards an older man, scrawny but wiry, with an open shirt revealing a grey chest and gold chains. 

"That's Mikhail Volkov," Inna says, following Draco's gaze. "Bit of a legend in the wizarding community around here. He's an arsehole, but he worked as an Auror informant for the Russian mob."

"No wonder Stepanov knows him," Martine says. "He spent years in Major Crimes."

Stepanov catches sight of them and waves them over. They jog across the street once the light changes, meeting him halfway back to Potter and Durant. Stepanov stops in front of a store with a giant yellow awning with _Saint Petersburg_ printed on it in black Slavic lettering, and waits for both of sets of Aurors to catch up with him. The shop's long windows are filled with Russian books and china tea sets, samovars and matryoshkas and red, white, and blue Russian flags.

"Well?" Durant asks, and Draco hates how tanned and confident and touselled blond Durant is. Not like Draco who knows he's pink and flushed and sweaty, his hair hanging limply against the back of his neck. Draco reaches up and twists his hair away from his nape, feeling a faint breeze kiss his prickly skin before he lets it fall back again

"Misha's not talking," Stepanov says. "Not directly anyway. But I did get out of him that there's something going on down here that some people aren't happy about." He scratches his round belly. "And he claims not to have seen Dolohov, but when I showed him the shithead's picture he definitely reacted. Tried to hide it, but I'm guessing from his expression that he doesn't much like your boy."

"Not many people do," Draco says, without thinking and they all look over at him. He just shrugs and shoves his hands in his pockets, his file jacket full of pictures tucked under one arm. "He ran the Snatchers with Greyback during the War. He's not the warm and fuzzy type."

Potter snorts in amusement, and the sound sends a wave of happiness through Draco. God, he's pathetic, isn't he, that something so simple would thrill him like this? Draco can't look at Potter, although he feels Potter's gaze on him. 

"So how do you want to handle this?" Durant asks Potter. "We've got Espinoza's group up between Sixth and Seventh. We're all here, so…"

Potter's frowning down the street. "No joy on the boardwalk?" he asks Draco, and Draco shakes his head. 

"Mostly Muggles who came down from other parts of the city for the day," Draco says. 

"The Russians don't come out until evening," Inna adds. "Mostly."

"Right," Potter says, and he's rubbing his jaw. His collar shifts, and Draco can see the fading edge of a love bite he'd given Potter earlier in the week. He feels his face heat, and he looks away. Circe, but it turns him on to see his mark still on Potter's skin. 

Potter sighs. "We take this side and Malfoy, you and Martine run the other? Let's focus mostly on Dolohov then, see if we can push wizarding people a bit more." He glances between Inna and Stepnov. "Can you two make sure we're near them?"

Inna nods. "I know a few people who should be around soon."

"Great." Potter glances at Durant. "Good by you?"

Durant just shrugs. "What the fuck. We're hunting needles in haystacks as it is."

For once, Draco agrees with him. There'd been fucking nothing at the warehouse site where they'd started off. Not that they expected anything. Magiforensics had gone through it pretty thoroughly, and Draco's hoping Pansy'll catch something when their reports cross her desk. But today, they'd walked through an empty warehouse off Stillwell Avenue with not the slightest trace lingering of any magical activity. They're stuck now with pounding the streets, hoping to uncover something. Anything. 

Circe, Draco hopes Blaise is having better luck. 

Potter catches Draco's arm before they all split up again, holds him back. "Everything all right with Martine?" he asks as the other step away. 

"It's fine," Draco says, and his gaze flicks to Durant, who's stopped a storefront down, sunglasses perched on his head, laughing as Stepanov says something to him. "Everything all right with your ex?" He knows there's a slightly spiteful tone to his voice. He doesn't really care. It'd irked him when Potter'd gone with Durant instead of him whilst splitting up the teams, even if he knows that the whole point was to have at least one MACUSA team member per group. 

"It's good, actually," Potter says, and he looks over at Durant as well. Draco has the intense urge to scratch Durant's fucking eyes out. 

Instead he just says, "Brilliant," and starts to walk away. 

Potter stops him. "Hey," he says, and Draco turns back, because Draco always turns back when it comes to Potter, doesn't he? Circe, he hates himself for it. But Potter's giving him that steady, warm look that makes Draco's insides a bit fluttery, makes him have hopes about how Potter might feel that are probably utterly unrealistic and foolish and that Blaise would mock him for. Rightly so.

"You don't have to worry about that," Potter says. "We're done, he and I. You know that, yeah?" There's something different in Potter's expression when he says that, something more relaxed. More honest in a way. 

Draco doesn't say anything for a moment, and then his gaze flits over towards Durant. He's not even paying attention to them. Draco draws in a slow breath. "Yeah," he says. "I know." He can't stop himself from glancing back at Potter, though, his eyes searching Potter's face. "You're really done."

"Completely. Nothing more between us. He's good with that." Potter makes a movement like he wants to touch Draco, but he catches himself in time. "So stop fretting."

"I'm not," Draco snaps, but the look Potter gives him lets him know exactly how little Potter believes him on that regard. Still, something happy opens up inside of him, and he can't help a small smile. 

Potter shifts closer, angling his body so Draco can't look Durant's way. "Remember how I woke you up?"

Draco does. Circe, but he does. Potter's slow kisses had pulled him from sleep, and when he'd opened his eyes, Potter'd just smiled down at him, his prick hard through his running shorts as he shifted against Draco's thigh, and he'd whispered, _I'm going to suck you off now, if that's all right._ And it had been. Oh, fucking Merlin, had it been.

The smile he gives Potter is wider. "It was all right."

"When we get back from MACUSA," Potter says quietly, "I'm going to do that again." His eyes crinkle at the corners. "Without having to wake you up this time."

A shiver goes through Draco. "We'll see," he says. He knows they will. Fuck, when has he ever denied Potter anything in recent days? He wants nothing more than to climb that muscular body of Potter's, to rut up against him until they're both breathless and aching. Still, it wouldn't do to let Potter know exactly how much he wants him. Draco likes to keep a pretension of control at least. 

Potter just grins at him. "Better catch up with Martine. She's looking impatient."

To say the least. She's shooting daggers Draco's way. 

"Yeah." Draco's legs are shaky as he walks away from Potter. He's half-hard as it is, and that's not making anything better, not to mention Martine's eyeing him suspiciously. "What?" he snaps at her, and she just shrugs. 

"Tu ne vaux ni ma câlisse de job," she says, and the translation spell lets him know precisely what she means.

His face heats. He walks past her, ignoring Inna's curious look between them. "Let's just canvass the fucking street," he says, "so we can say we did it and go the fuck home."

"Fine by me," Martine says, and the half-friendly détente that's built up between them this afternoon fades away as they cross the street again. 

They go into every shop and business along the crowded thoroughfare, from the stores selling Russian food and souvenirs to the apteka selling Muggle medicines alongside discreetly packaged wizarding potions, from the cafes to the banks to the handful of upscale nightclubs just starting to wake for the evening, their names a Cyrillic scrawl in bright neon across their windows.

No one's willing to speak to them, even with Inna present. They just shake their heads and say, "I know nothing." Over and over and over again, and Draco's certain at least half of them are lying. 

And then they stop on the corner of Fifth Street and Brighton Beach Avenue between a florist shop and a beauty supply store. Draco's frustrated, Martine is annoyed, and Inna's pulled out another cigarette to light when she catches sight of a young man just a bit younger than Draco himself, standing behind a small folding table across the street, his dark hair twisted up into a bun at the back of his head. He's clean-shaven and dressed neatly enough, Draco supposes, in faded jeans and a cream t-shirt, a brown sleeveless vest hanging open over it. 

"Fyedka," Inna says with a happy smile, and she hurries over to him, Draco and Martine trailing behind. She throws her arms around the man, and he kisses the top of her head. 

"Innochka!" He looks over at the rest of them. "Who're your friends?"

"Aurors," Inna says. "Draco Malfoy, Martine Boucher. This is Fyodor Popov."

Popov reaches out a hand, and Draco shakes it. His grip is strong, his skin cool. "Fyedka to my friends." 

Draco smiles at him. "Pleased to meet you."

"We're trying to figure out what's going on with this guy," Martine gestures to Draco, who holds out the picture of Dolohov. 

Popov whistles. "Shit. Nobody's talking about that, I'm sure."

They all laugh, mirthlessly, and Martine says, "No shit." She eyes him. "But you recognise him?"

"Maybe I do. Maybe I don't." Popov looks a bit uncertain. "What's it to you?"

Draco has a sudden insight. "Listen, Fyedka. We know Dolohov was here. We don't need you to say anything about that. But what's going on around Antonin that has everyone so scared?"

Popov eyes him for a moment. "You know this Dolohov?"

"Rather well," Draco says. "He and my aunt were close. He used to stay with my family when I was at school." And Draco doesn't want to think about those days. Or about the rumours that were swirling around at one point about exactly how close Bella and Dolohov were. 

Martine's eyes are wide, and Draco thinks, _shows you._ The cow really should have read his file.

Popov nods slowly. "Okay. So you know that. And you probably know people like him don't go away quickly." He smiles, but looks around to make his point. He's afraid too, but he's trusting them. Popov hesitates, running his hand over the back of his neck. 

"Anything you can tell us would be good, Fyedka," Inna says. 

Popov looks over at her, chewing on his lip, then he glances back at Draco. "They've been fighting, your aunt's friend and some of his cronies."

"Fyedka, are you involved with this?" Inna's tone is stern, and Draco's worried she's going to shut up the only person they've got to talk this afternoon.

"Not me, Innochka." Popov holds his palms up. "You know. I just know people who know people, yeah?"

Inna rolls her eyes. "So that's a yes, you are. But your brother Andy's probably more involved, isn't he?" She leans over to Draco and Martine. "Andrei Popov has a rather long record with us."

Popov shrugs. "You said it, not me."

Draco hands Popov the file of photos, trying to get him to trust him and also distract him from Inna busting his chops. "Do you know any of these people?"

Popov leafs through the stack. He passes over Eddie Durant, but pulls out the photo of Harkaway and taps it with this finger. "Shit. You know who this is? He's the Old Man's grandkid. Asshole mostly, one of those rich-kid Ilvermorny shits. Christ, they're bastards, but even they kicked him out."

"Why?" Martine asks. "It's almost impossible to get expelled from Ilvermorny."

"Unless you're poor," Popov says with a snort. "And this dickhead's not. No idea why they cut him loose. He came down here from Boston a while back, after the Ilvermorny thing. Got all tatted up because it'll piss Mommy off. I hear he hates his stepdad and is angry at his mom." Popov rolls his eyes. "The usual my life is so terrible, fuck being so rich kind of bullshit. His real dad's from somewhere in Europe, but the kid never sees him."

Draco leans forward, whilst Martine's tending a covert recording spell. This is gold. "So he never sees his dad?"

Popov nods. "He idolises him though, thinks his dad's the shit, yeah? His uncle too." Popov pauses. "They're not very nice men. The things that kid says?" He shakes his head. "Jesus, man. Andy says they're fucking scary bastards."

Draco lets it pass that Harkaway and Popov are probably the same age. "So the Old Man? Does he have a name?"

Popov smiles, shielding his eyes with his hand from the son. "He's just the Old Man here. He does a lot for the community, you know? He's older, grey hair, looks like he's rich. Oh, and he's got a British accent. Not a lot, he's been over here for a while, but you can still hear it sometimes."

Draco leans in, smiling into Popov's rather charming brown eyes. "So why would an arsehole like Antonin Dolohov harass such a respectable gentleman?"

Popov stretches his palms out, then turns them up. "Exactly! The Old Man takes care of the neighborhood, but Dolohov's stirring some people up against him. Andy says he's talking about how they need to stop hiding themselves, that they're better than the No-Majs, except Dolohov calls them something weird. Muggles? Yeah, something like that."

"That's what people in Britain call No-Majs." Draco nods encouragingly, hoping to spin Popov out. "So why is the kid involved?"

Popov crosses his arms over his chest. "I think he's looking for trouble. He's been hanging out with Dolohov for years."

Martine stops him. "Wait, years? How many years?"

"Six or seven, maybe?" Popov guesses. He looks over at Draco. "Your aunt's friend's a regular visitor, Mr Malfoy. You don't think people are scared because they don't know him, do you?"

And Draco's momentarily stunned. It's only been eight years since the War. How the fuck long has Dolohov been working with the Americans?

"Does he have a lot of friends here?" Martine presses. Inna's lighting a cigarette and beginning to look uneasy herself.

Popov leans in close. "Most people, if they have any sense, are afraid of him. Some people like him a little, think he makes sense, you know. The Old Man's not happy, but what can you do?" He shrugs. "That's all I know, man." He reaches down and grabs a holdall, pulling it up on the table. "Look, I got to work, yeah? Move some of these." He starts pulling out what looks like Muggle video cases. 

"That's illegal," Martine says, an eyebrow rising. 

"I just helped you out." Popov gives her a charming grin. "You're not going to bust my chops."

Martine just rolls her eyes and smiles. Draco and Popov shake hands; Inna kisses him on his cheeks, and they leave him be, walking back towards the boardwalk. The beach is full of older Russians now, and Draco's suddenly shivering in the July heat. Literally any one of them could be involved. This is the country of old men.

He's quiet as he and Martine trudge back to the meeting point, Inna trailing them, even though their information should have him crowing in triumph.

This is a fucking cockup, Draco thinks, of epic proportions. The fact that British Magical Intelligence has missed someone like Antonin Dolohov in Brighton Beach for years is chilling his blood.

Who knows what else is out there? Or who else.

Draco thinks he won't sleep well tonight. Even with Potter by his side.

***

Dinner's a sober affair, mostly. They're all tired, Harry thinks, and they'd stopped off at a Thai restaurant between the Woolworth and the hotel after filing their report on Fyodor Popov's statement. Even Jake's team had joined them. It wasn't a celebration. More like a wake of sorts.

Harry doesn't know what to think. Malfoy's unsettled, and Harry doesn't blame him. If Dolohov's been going back and forth between Europe and the States for that long, Christ only knows what the man's been up to. 

And so they'd done the only thing Aurors know to do when a case gets this frustrating. They'd eaten and drunk and sat around trying to crack jokes about the situation. And utterly failing at the latter. 

Malfoy'd just sat there, looking grim and tired and worried, and Harry'd known he needed to get him away. They'd left the others in the restaurant, Harry claiming he had paperwork to do, and Malfoy saying he was tired and would walk back with Harry. It hadn't fooled anyone, except perhaps Espinoza, who'd been paying more attention to flirting with Zabini across the table than anything they were saying. Jake hadn't been happy with her, Harry'd noticed, but he'd just sat there and drank his Singha, and frankly, Harry thinks Jake should just make up his fucking mind about what he wants and what he's willing to do to get it.

Harry's starting to suspect being around Slytherins all day is rubbing off on him.

By the time Harry gets the door to his room open, Malfoy's already pressed against him, his mouth nipping at Harry's jaw. Harry pulls him into the room, the door falling shut behind them, and then Malfoy has Harry against the wall and is kissing him, his hands trailing down Harry's chest. 

"If I'd only known a few beers at dinner would get you handsy like this," Harry says against Malfoy's mouth, smiling, and Malfoy pulls back, his eyes crinkling at the corners, his hands resting against Harry's shirt. 

"To be fair it was two beers," Malfoy says. "And they've nothing to do with the fact that I've wanted you since you woke me up this morning all hot and sweaty and wearing my favourite shirt, might I point out."

"I don't recall you complaining." Harry drapes his arms over Malfoy's shoulders. He's only an inch or two taller than Harry, but he's lean and long in a way that Harry's not as much now that he's left his adolescence behind. Harry still has the compactness of a Seeker, but his shoulders have filled out, his chest his muscular, and years of strength training have given him the ability to pick Malfoy up easily if he wants to and carry him into the bedroom without breaking a sweat. Harry thinks about it, but he likes the way Malfoy's warm against him right now, Harry's back pressed against the wall of his small sitting room, Malfoy watching him, his cheeks starting to flush just a bit. Harry wonders if Malfoy knows how fucking beautiful he is, all sharp angles and pale skin, his blond hair loose around his face. It's grown a bit since Harry'd come back in May; it's past Malfoy's jaw now, brushing the curve of Malfoy's neck. Harry reaches up and lets his fingers slip through the silky strands. 

Malfoy's eyes flutter closed for a moment at the touch. "Who's going to object to being woken up by an already hard Harry Potter?"

Harry lets his knuckles trace the line of Malfoy's throat. He can feel the soft vibration of Malfoy's quiet groan. "Well, I had been thinking about you since I crossed back over the Brooklyn Bridge." Malfoy opens his eyes again, a small smile curving his mouth. He looks soft, Harry thinks, his sharp edges blurred a bit when his gaze meets Harry's. 

"I should object to you running without me," Malfoy says. "I've been cooped up on those awful treadmills." He makes a face. "I miss feeling pavement beneath my feet."

"Tomorrow," Harry promises. "We'll get up early." He has an appointment with Freddie in the morning, but he doesn't mention that. It still feels a bit too fragile to talk about seeing her with other people. He hadn't even wanted to bring it up with Jake, but he'd needed help in getting the Portkey. He doesn't know what he'll tell the team about coming in late, but he'll figure it out in the morning. Tonight? Tonight's just him and Malfoy.

Malfoy sighs. "Circe, Potter. I just don't want to think right now." He looks at Harry. "There's too much spinning around in my head and I want it all to stop." He shrugs out of his jacket, tossing it over the chair at the desk, then unbuttoning his cuffs, rolling them up his forearm. "Fuck Dolohov--" He breaks off and breathes out through his nose. "Well, more like fuck me." He gives Harry a lopsided smile.

"I can help with that." Harry's fingers slide to the small bit of collarbone exposed by Malfoy's open shirt collar. He'd pulled his tie off at the restaurant, stuffed it in his jacket pocket. Harry wonders if Malfoy knows how much Harry likes him like this, a bit rumpled, a bit debonair. He likes him even more with tangled morning hair, spread out beneath Harry the way he'd been when Harry'd come back in from his run, hipbones jutting up as Malfoy shifted against the mattress, that perfect pink prick of his bobbing in the air, twitching every time Harry'd breathed out against it. Harry knows every inch of Malfoy's body now. Knows how he'll flush when Harry does something as simple as running a finger along a bit of soft skin, how he'll exhale when Harry hooks that finger beneath a tightly woven cotton shirt placket and tugs just enough for a pearly white button to slide through the perfectly stitched buttonhole, exposing just a bit more of that soft, pale skin, Harry's finger golden brown against it. 

Malfoy swallows, but just looks at him with those beautifully clear, cool grey eyes.

"I don't think I can ever get tired of watching you," Harry says, and his voice feels thick and rough against his throat. It's almost as if they're in a magical world of their own, here in New York, on the forty-ninth floor of the Millenium Hilton, sheltered from their daily lives, from whatever fuckery's going on back home. Here it's just him and Malfoy and the rest of the team, and no one cares if Harry and Malfoy walk away from the restaurant to come up here, no one even fucking notices, not really, because it's what he and Malfoy do, who they are, and Harry doesn't think he wants to go back. 

Not right now, at least. 

"Such sentimental rubbish, Potter," Malfoy says, in a soft, amused huff, his hands settling on Harry's hips, and Harry's reminded of what he'd told Jake this morning. That he and Malfoy aren't the Harry and Draco sort. Harry wishes they were, in a way. Wishes he had the nerve to lean forward, to kiss Malfoy, to whisper _Draco_ across those delicious asymmetrical lips, thin on the top, plush on the bottom. The very thought makes his prick swell in his pants.

Thoughts of Jake bubble up then, about how painful it'd been to talk to Jake this morning, to let him go. There's been some part of Harry still holding on to what they had, for security if nothing else. He knows that now that it's gone. Some part of Harry hadn't wanted to let Jake move on, even though Harry was already gone, had already fallen arse over tit for Malfoy. That's changed, a little at least, and Harry is more open to Malfoy than he's ever been. He's stopped hedging his bets.

Harry's jealous of Zabini too, but only a smidge, in that way you're always jealous of your ex's new interests. It'll fade soon enough, Harry thinks, and he's glad of that. Also, with the way Zabini had been flirting with Espinoza tonight and the look on Jake's face, Zabini had better act fast if he wants to keep Jake from walking away. Harry knows how stubborn Jake can be, as he can too, and he thinks maybe that kept them together longer than it should have.

Harry cups Malfoy's face between his hands. God, but he wants to tell Malfoy he loves him. He can't though. It's too soon, these feelings too raw, too new. Harry can't give them over that easily; it's not who he is. He knows everyone thinks he wears his feelings on his sleeve in true Gryffindor fashion, but he doesn't. Not always. Not the ones that matter, the ones that terrify him, that make him feel small and young and uncertain. Harry can't put himself out there yet, can't let his fragile heart get shredded. Whatever this is between them means too much to him.

"Gorgeous," Harry murmurs, and Malfoy smiles, then it falters just a bit.

"Did you mean what you said this afternoon?" Malfoy asks him. "You and Durant. There's nothing more between you." His gaze is fixed on Harry's; there's a hesitant, unsure expression on his face. 

"Nothing," Harry says. His thumbs smooth over Malfoy's sharp cheekbones, down along the angles of Malfoy's jaw. "We've talked. We've let things go. Said goodbye. Both of us meant it, I assure you."

Malfoy's face shifts. It's quick, but Harry catches the way his mouth tightens, then relaxes as if Malfoy's forcing himself to stay calm. "And when was this?"

Harry's breath catches in his throat, and he doesn't want to tell him. He knows Malfoy's still insecure about their relationship, distrustful of Jake. It's not like Harry doesn't understand. He can't bear to think of Nicholas Lyndon, and he doesn't give a fuck if he ends up with a permanent blemish on his service record for punching the bastard. It'd felt brilliant at the time, even better when he remembers it, and Harry'd do it again in a fucking heartbeat. But Nicholas Lyndon isn't Jake Durant, and Harry's not working side-by-side with him. Malfoy has to answer to Jake right now too, as co-leader of their team. Harry owes it to Malfoy to be forthcoming, as much as he's sure it's going to end in a row.

"This morning," Harry says finally. He lets his hands drop to Malfoy's hips. "When I went for a run. I was on the Promenade. He ran up. Like I said, we talked." 

Malfoy stiffens. Harry's fingers press into Malfoy's trousers. He doesn't want him to move. "You met up with him," Malfoy says, his voice quiet, eyes scanning Harry's face. "And you talked. I don't think that's all, Potter."

And Harry doesn't want Malfoy to hear about the rest of it from anyone but him. Not that Jake would, but he has a temper, Harry knows full well. One that almost rivals Malfoy's. And if it came out from Jake, well, that would be a justifiable end to the fragile peace he and Malfoy have forged. It might still be now even if it's Harry breaking the news.

Harry doesn't say anything for a moment. 

Malfoy steps back, and Harry's hands drop to his sides. "What aren't you telling me, Potter?" Malfoy's breathing a bit hard, his chest heaving. His mouth is drawn down at the corners. "There's something else. I know it."

Harry's stomach twists. It'd be so easy to try to distract Malfoy, to kiss Malfoy until he's breathless, to drop down and mouth Malfoy's prick through his trousers. It's what he would have done a week ago. Deflected. Sidetracked. Flustered and ruffled Malfoy until he was aching for Harry's cock and not asking difficult questions that Harry doesn't really want to answer. 

But, in the end, Harry's discovering, Malfoy always knows. Somehow. And tonight Harry wants to tell Malfoy the truth. To hope he can trust Malfoy not to overreact, not to walk away.

And so Harry looks at him, taking in Malfoy's unhappy posture, his arms folded over his chest, fingers plucking at the white cotton of his sleeves. Hermione's always told Harry that he doesn't see people, not really, that he's so uncomfortable with emotion that he just blocks it out, looks away, pretends that he's not hurting someone else. Harry can't let himself do that this time. He can tell how hurt Malfoy is going to be, how vulnerable and open he is from how he's trying to close off his posture.

Harry draws in a slow breath. Malfoy's watching him, wary and tense, like a small frightened animal not certain whether to run or attack. 

"We talked, and I let Jake kiss me," Harry says, and Malfoy stills completely, his face looking as if it's carved from granite, beautiful and remote. "It wasn't anything," Harry adds, not sure that he's not digging the hole deeper. "It was a goodbye kiss and nothing more, but it happened, and I don't want to lie to you about it." 

They've never promised each other fidelity, he and Malfoy, Harry knows. He doesn't owe it to Malfoy, not technically, but he knows that's a bullshit excuse. He loves Malfoy, and whatever that kiss had meant, to him or to Jake, Harry'd known at the time that it would also hurt Malfoy to find out about it. God. He'd been a fool to agree, but he'd wanted to kiss Jake too. One last time, and that's the part he doesn't want tell Malfoy because that is the painful truth. Harry has to at least be honest with himself.

Malfoy's silent, and then he turns and walks away from Harry, going over to stand at the window ledge. He rests his hands against it, leans forward, his back a long, tense line. Harry doesn't go to him. Not yet. He can almost feel Malfoy's angry struggle, the jealousy welling up inside of him. He doesn't know how. He just knows that somehow the tendrils of Malfoy's complex, complicated feelings are twisting at the edges of Harry's mind.

So Harry just waits. 

It's a long moment before Malfoy turns back around, his pale hair highlighted by light of the fading sky. "You're a fucker," Malfoy says, his voice quiet and furious. "You know that, right?"

Harry doesn't answer. Malfoy looks away, his jaw working as he swallows. Harry wishes he knew what Malfoy's thinking right now. The energy of the room grows heavy and tense between them; Malfoy's gripping the edge of the window ledge so tightly his knuckles are a pale white. 

"Circe," Malfoy says after a moment, and it's half-laugh, half-sob, all bitter. "I suppose I should have expected this." He lets his head fall back, lets his eyes close, and Harry's prick responds to the long stretch of Malfoy's body silhouetted against the buildings behind him, swelling against the flies of Harry's trousers. "You were cheating on him when I met you, after all."

He means when they'd first fucked, Harry knows, but he's not going to press the point. Not now. "It was a goodbye," Harry says again, and he wants Malfoy to understand. To believe him that it meant nothing else. 

Malfoy looks back at him. "That's never what a kiss truly means, Potter," he says, and he sounds so tired. So grim. "You may think that, but a kiss? It's power. It's want. It's everything I don't want that bastard to have when it comes to you."

Harry stills. "He has no power over me, Malfoy. You're the one who has me wrapped around your finger."

"If you hadn't wanted that kiss," Malfoy says quietly, "you'd never have let him have it. And that? That's what makes me the fucking angriest, you arsehole."

Harry feels trapped in the web of his own contradictory feelings. He wants Malfoy, more than anything. He's in love with Malfoy. But that part of him that's familiar with Jake wants him too still. It's fading, but Malfoy's right. He shouldn't have wanted to kiss Jake this morning. He shouldn't have let him, even if he does think it helped him start to close the door on their past. 

"I'm sorry," Harry says finally. "You _are_ the one that I want. And if you don't believe me when I say it, perhaps I need to show it to you."

Malfoy watches him, considering. "How will I know you're telling the truth?"

"I can't lie with my body, Malfoy," Harry says. "Try me."

Malfoy shifts, looks back out at the city's skyline behind them. The moment stretches out between them, and Harry's not certain that Malfoy won't walk out of this room, go back to his own, leave Harry here, uncertain and miserable. He waits, barely breathing. 

To be honest, Harry doesn't know what he's offering Malfoy exactly, and he has no idea if Malfoy will take it. Harry wants him to know what they have between them is everything he wants, everything he needs, but he doesn't know how to say it, to show it. When Malfoy turns to face him, Harry can tell from the look on Malfoy's face that he's angry--jealous even--and confused. He's hovering on an invisible threshold that Harry can't see, but he can definitely feel in the chill and the tension between them. Malfoy looks like he wants to run, and his eyes slide to the door at least twice. And then Malfoy sighs and swears beneath his breath, his shoulders slumping ever so slightly. He steps over, back towards Harry.

"Fine, Potter." Malfoy hesitates. His chin goes up and his eyes narrow. "But I want to be in fucking control tonight. Do you understand?"

Harry nods slowly. He thinks he does, and a frisson of want slides through him. He likes this side of Malfoy, hasn't really seen it before.

Malfoy looks at Harry for a moment, his expression blank, then he takes out his wand. Before Harry can tense, but with his brain screaming _danger,_ Malfoy Levitates the coffee table out of the way, over towards the door. Malfoy walks to the sofa and sits down, staring at Harry thoughtfully.

"If you don't like anything I do, Potter, you need to tell me." Malfoy chews on his bottom lip, then says, "If you can't verbalise it, please go limp and I'll know."

Harry nods, not speaking. He's had these arrangements before, with Jake and others, and he knows how to navigate this space. Evidently, Malfoy does as well, and Harry's curious about that fact, but decides to ask later. Now's not the time for him to ask questions, to prod into Malfoy's sexual past. There's so much they still don't know about each other, Harry realises, and that seems so odd. He feels as if he's known Malfoy forever, watched him, studied him, stalked him even, and yet he's barely scratched the surface of who the man sitting in front of him really is. Harry thinks it might take him a lifetime to really discover the entirety of Draco Lucius Malfoy. 

Malfoy leans against the back of the brown sofa, so rangy and leggy against its simple boxy lines. "Strip, Potter. And you'd best do it well." He palms his prick through the thin fabric of his grey trousers for a moment, then takes his hand away, leaving the obvious swell there for Harry to see. Harry's knees grow weak against the wall. Malfoy's eyes are dark with want as he slouches into the corner of the sofa, his long legs stretched out in front of him. "If you don't please me, I'll walk out that door."

Harry doesn't think Malfoy will, at least not with the table in front of it, but he moves closer anyway, feeling exposed in the middle of the room. He loosens the buttons of his shirt experimentally, watching the naked desire spread over Malfoy's face. His fingers travel under the pale blue cotton, tweaking his nipple. A jolt of sensation goes through him, and Harry closes his eyes.

"Not yet, Potter. Open your eyes and let me see." Malfoy's lean, angular face is flushed with arousal. Harry can see the beat of his pulse in his throat through the vee of his open collar.

Harry does as he's commanded, shifting and slowly unbuttoning his shirt.

"Let it hang open. I want to see you," Malfoy says. He licks across his bottom lip, and Harry can see Malfoy's tight, tailored trousers tenting further. 

Harry stands, letting Malfoy watch him. His nipples harden, and his cock is already well past half-hard, pressing against the flies of his flat-fronted khakis. He desperately wants to touch himself, but he knows that he can't until Malfoy tells him to. Harry understands the rules of this game they're playing, knows that if he's not careful, if he breaks them at all, Malfoy might bolt.

Malfoy's breath is a little uneven. "Play with your tits. I want to see that." Malfoy's voice is sharp, demanding, but the expression in his eyes is soft and open.

Harry twists his nipples between his thumb and forefinger, trying to show Malfoy how big he can get them, how far away from his body they stretch. They're pebbled hard between his fingers, but they stand up when he lets go.

"Good, Potter," Malfoy says, his voice barely a whisper, and the warm feeling from his praise goes from Harry's stomach into his cock. "You're so fucking good at this." Malfoy shifts, spreading his thighs wider. "Look at you. Fuck, but you know what gets me hard, don't you?" 

Harry smoothes his hands up over his flat, bare chest, letting his nipples peek through his fingers, and he's sure he's flushing.

Malfoy makes a soft noise, and his trousers are pulling at the placket, the zip showing. "Now stroke yourself," Malfoy says. "I want you to take your cock out and make it hard for me."

Harry closes his eyes for a moment. It's almost too much, this sense of being exposed, of doing exactly what Malfoy wants, what Malfoy tells him to do. It's heady and amazing, but also overwhelming.

"Eyes open," Malfoy says sharply. "Or you have to stop, and I go back to my room."

Keeping his gaze fixed on the tight, hungry look on Malfoy's face, Harry thumbs the button of his trousers, then unzips the flies with his lip caught between his teeth and a heated look thrown Malfoy's way. Malfoy's sitting up on the edge of the sofa now, watching. His chest is heaving, just a little, but enough so that Harry notices, and his cheeks are pink, his eyes bright as Harry pushes his pants down, pulls his prick and bollocks out to hang over the bunched twill of his trousers.

"All the way down," Malfoy says, his voice a bit breathy. "I want you starkers, Potter."

Harry pushes his trousers and his pants down, steps out of them, kicking them to one side. Malfoy's gaze is on his cock, and Harry toes off his shoes, pulls off his socks and stands there in front of Malfoy, completely naked, his prick well on its way to fully erect. 

Malfoy swallows. "I think I told you I wanted you hard."

When Harry touches himself, Harry's breath catches, and his eyes water because he's trying to keep them open to look at Malfoy. God, Harry's so swollen already, and the head of his cock is velvety soft, leaking into his hand when he rolls his palm over it. Harry strokes several times from root to tip slowly, his foreskin slipping back, Malfoy's eyes following his movement. Harry tugs his foreskin forward, over the wet tip of his prick, twisting it just a bit, enough to make him gasp. He's always loved to play with himself like this, to take it slow, to let his foreskin slip back just enough to reveal his slick, smooth head. 

"That's it." Malfoy says, almost unconsciously pressing the palm of his hand against his own prick, then putting it on the back of the sofa, fingers digging into the upholstery. "That's good." Malfoy's hips circle a little, and Harry knows he's having an effect on him. "More."

And Harry strokes himself again, his prick fully hard and hot in his hand, his whole body taut and prickling with a want so strong it nearly makes Harry wobble. Harry bites his lip, wincing at the pain as it clears his head. He could come just like this, but he knows he's not supposed to. "I--" He groans. "What do you want me to do?" Harry asks, his hand stilling around the base of his prick. He squeezes hard, trying to stave off the roiling twist of desire going through him. "Anything--"

"Remember when you said you liked being tied up?" Malfoy's voice is soft.

Harry lets his hair fall over his forehead, a little undone by the question. "Yeah. I do." The words are rough in his throat, but his prick surges under his hand.

Malfoy stands up, and Harry's glad to see he's a bit unsteady himself. "Can I tie your hands behind your back? I thought I'd use the standard Auror restraint bond." Malfoy hesitates, almost as if he's afraid Harry'll say no. "If you're okay with that."

And oh, the suggestion goes straight to Harry's prick. He hasn't had his hands restraint-bonded behind him in ages. "Yeah. I'd like that." He doesn't want to think about who'd done this to him last. This isn't about him and Jake. Tonight he's Malfoy's. Entirely. Completely. With all of his heart, all of his body.

"Kneel," Malfoy says, and Harry takes of his glasses, dropping them on the desk, and complies, his prick huge and hard in front of him. Malfoy circles behind Harry, drawing his wand. The moment between the spell and the effect is brief, but Harry shivers, hearing the familiar words and then feeling the magical bond pull his wrists together behind him. It's tight, but he knows how to break it--they all do. It's part of training. Harry knows Malfoy knows this as well.

"You look good on your knees," Malfoy says softly from behind him. "Spread open like this." His breath hitches. "For _me._ "

Harry shivers, his body going hot and then cold. His prick is leaking into the carpet and his shoulder twinges. He calms his breathing, relaxing into the posture, letting his knees spread, finding his balance. It's familiar, and he's comfortable here, but Malfoy makes it new as well. This is different with him, in a way that Harry can't quite explain. He's never felt this open, this exposed, this raw before. As if Malfoy can see straight into his soul. 

For a moment, Harry wants him to.

Malfoy comes back around to where Harry can see him. He bends forward, studying Harry's face, his fingertips light against Harry's cheek. "I'm still angry with you, Potter, but I really want to fuck you as well." Something in his voice breaks a little, and Harry's heart clenches at the lost, almost agitated look in Malfoy's eyes. " I _need_ to fuck you." His hand cups Harry's chin, gentle and soft. "Can I do that?" he whispers.

Harry shivers, his back arching to keep his balance. "Yes. Yes please."

Malfoy strokes his knuckles across Harry's jaw, and it's such an echo of what Jake had done earlier in the day, but Malfoy's soft touch pierces Harry with the intensity of an emotion that Harry'd never felt with Jake, a sharp, deep swell of warmth and affection and trust that almost overwhelms Harry. Love, he thinks, and he's never understood what it's like, how it feels to have someone you love touch you like this. Harry looks up at Malfoy, bound but entirely undone by him. 

A small smile creases Malfoy's lips. "Good. But you have to tell me if I need to stop."

Harry nods eagerly. "I will," he manages to choke out. He only wants to please Malfoy, and doesn't plan on telling him to stop if he can help it, but he's grateful that Malfoy is negotiating with him step-by-step. He's feeling off-centre and a little sex-drunk already, and Malfoy, even as angry as he is--and Harry can feel it radiating off him at moments--is being very careful with Harry. 

That gentleness only makes Harry more certain of how he feels.

Malfoy walks to the window where night is starting to fall, and the lights from the adjacent buildings wink in the warm darkness. His back to Harry, Malfoy unbuttons his shirt, reflected faintly in the window, his shoulders angular in the light. He shrugs the white fabric off and lets it slide down his arms before he tosses it to the corner. His back is lean and muscular, and the knobby column of his spine is long. Harry watches, transfixed, as Malfoy's elbows bend. He hears Malfoy's zipper and then sees the shift of Malfoy's hips as he pulls his trousers and pants off of his hips and lets them fall. When he bends to pick them up, his balls are rosy between his legs and his cock is full. Harry's mouth is watering. He knows Malfoy's doing this for him, letting Harry look at him this way.

"Turn this way, Potter," Malfoy says, his back still to Harry, his high, perfect arse lovely over those beautiful long legs.

Harry shifts awkwardly on his knees, moving around to face Malfoy, his hands bouncing lightly against his arse. There's a smile on Malfoy's face when he finally turns around, and his long prick is beautiful and fully erect in front of him. Harry stares, transfixed. No matter how many times he sees Malfoy naked in front of him, the sight always takes Harry's breath away.

The curtains are open behind Malfoy, and Harry can see the glow of windows from the office building beyond, can catch the flicker of movement past them. "You know anyone could see you like this, Potter," Malfoy says, tucking a long strand of hair behind his ear. "On your knees, in front of me."

The idea of someone watching them, seeing them naked, knowing what they're about to do, makes Harry's prick jerk. Malfoy's eyebrow goes up. 

"What would Durant say, if he saw you like this?" Malfoy's slim finger presses against his pointy chin. There's a whimsical tone to his question, but it's laced with a sharp, bitter undercurrent. "If he knew I was going to have you. Right here. Right now. With half of Lower Manhattan watching?"

Harry's mouth opens, and he breathes in roughly. Jake would have once gone absolutely ballistic with jealousy, Harry thinks. Or maybe now he'd just sit back and watch, knowing him. Harry's not sure. He doesn't give a fuck, really. All he cares about at this moment is Malfoy.

Malfoy lazily strokes himself. "Oh well. He's not here, is he?" His mouth presses into a thin, angry line. "Fuck him," Malfoy says. "You're with me now."

As Harry watches, his breath coming in small, short huffs, Malfoy's finger goes around the tip of his wet prick. He steps forward, closer to Harry, then stands in front of him. Harry watches whilst Malfoy slides his foreskin back, and Harry can see how slick and wet the head of Malfoy's prick is. Malfoy's mouth curves, his eyes flicking to Harry's face to gauge Harry's reaction, and then Malfoy's fingering his slit, gasping a little as he dips his fingertip into it, pushes it wider. Harry knows how much that drives Malfoy wild, and it's making him even harder watching.

"You like this, don't you?" Malfoy asks, barely able to speak himself, and Harry nods eagerly.

Malfoy stops, then leans forward, sliding his wet fingertip in Harry's mouth. Harry can taste Malfoy, and it nearly makes his knees go weak, and he sucks Malfoy's finger until Malfoy's breathless, his swollen, ruddy prick bobbing between the two of them. 

"Merlin, Potter." Malfoy pulls his finger free, his face flushed. He eyes Harry, then lifts his wand to summon his dark blue tie from the pocket of his jacket. With a quick gesture, he transfigures it. Harry recognises the shape of a folded handkerchief. 

Malfoy rolls it in his hands. "Ι'd like to blindfold you. May I?"

"Yes. Yes, I'd like that." Harry's throat is dry. He shifts back, his ankle cracking. His knees are still okay, although his thigh is starting to twinge. He breathes, stilling, settling his body into the posture once more.

Malfoy's fingers barely graze Harry's cheeks as he lowers the fabric across Harry's eyes and ties it. Harry hears him walk behind him, then feels a cool hand stroking his shoulder blade and a warm breath in his ear. "You look amazing like this."

Harry feels bloody amazing. His legs are taut; his prick bobbing in front of him is leaking and hard. His nipples hurt a bit, but it feels great, and his skin is so fucking sensitive. For a moment, he can't tell what Malfoy is doing, but he hears a clank, then a rustle from the other room, and then Malfoy's back. Harry hears him put something on the sofa cushions. Then, Malfoy guides Harry back, closer to the edge of the sofa, still keeping Harry on his knees. Malfoy's hands slide over the muscles of Harry's arms, his sides, the plane of his lower back, his arse cheeks, his thighs. His touch is incredible, soft and light and leaving trails of gooseflesh behind, and Harry's body sings with want. 

"Here," Malfoy says, nudging Harry's ankles apart. He sits on the sofa behind Harry and strokes his hands Harry's back for a moment. He leans in, presses a kiss against the nape of Harry's neck. "Circe, Potter, what do you do to me?" he whispers against Harry's skin. "Even when I'm angry, I want you so much."

Then Harry hears the pop of the cap of a bottle of lube, and Malfoy's fingers are smoothing the crease of his arse, gliding over his hole, slick and questing. Harry keens, letting Malfoy stroke him. Everything feels so much more intense right now, here in the blue-black darkness of Harry's blindfold. 

"That's good," Malfoy says against Harry's ear. "Do you like this?" He smoothes a finger over the soft pucker of Harry's arsehole.

"Christ, yes," Harry breathes out.

Malfoy's finger flicks across the soft skin. "Do you want me to stretch you?"

Harry nods fervently, leaning forward to give Malfoy better access to his arse. One of Malfoy's fingertips dips inside Harry's hole, circling, then probes a bit more fully. Another follows, and Harry's opening up under Malfoy's touch, body clenching. He could come like this, he realises. Only from this touch and from the warmth and the oaky-sandalwood-clover smell of Malfoy's cologne.

Something else presses at the entrance of Harry's body, and it's cold and not made of flesh. "Remember how you told me Durant used this plug on you?" Malfoy whispers against Harry's ear. Fuck, does Harry ever. He remembers pressing it into Malfoy's shivering arse just before they came to New York, remembers the way Malfoy had shifted and writhed beneath his touch, his whole body trembling. 

"Yes," Harry says, his voice hoarse.

Malfoy's breath hitches against Harry's throat. "I want to use it on you now."

"Oh, fuck, yes," Harry chokes out. "Please. Use it on me."

Malfoy smoothes the slick, wet silicone tip over Harry's arsehole and then presses, twisting it inside. After an inch or so, it meets resistance, and Harry tenses, his body tight.

Malfoy stops, petting his hip. "Is that okay?" 

Harry breathes out. "Give me a moment." The plug's big, and Harry's been doing most of the fucking between the two of them lately. Malfoy waits for Harry's body to adjust, until Harry nods. "Okay," Harry says, relaxing around the plug.

Malfoy rubs a thumb over the rim of Harry's arse, then presses the base of the plug steadily against Harry's body, the bulb of it plunging deep inside him. Harry shudders when it slides all the way in. His body works around the intrusion, clenching, and his cock twitches.

"Say the charm to turn it on," Malfoy says against Harry's throat. "I want it to feel it vibrate inside of you." 

Malfoy puts a palm flush against Harry's lower back. As Harry speaks the charm with dry lips, his tongue sliding to moisten them, the toy starts to vibrate gloriously inside him, deep and steady. Malfoy's hand circles on his lower back, and Harry's body is alight with pleasure and the sensation of being cared for.

Harry's not so certain Malfoy's angry any more. Not entirely at least.

When Malfoy takes his hand away and leans back against the sofa, Harry protests. Malfoy snorts. "Not everything's about you, Potter." After a moment Harry hears soft breaths and guttural moans slipping from Malfoy's lips. The slap of Malfoy's hand grows louder as he wanks himself, his knees pressing deeper into Harry's arsecheeks as his body jerks. "God," he says in between strokes. "How you look."

Harry's blindingly hard, and he thinks he might come just from the butt plug and the thought of Malfoy behind him, masturbating to the sight of Harry's arse on display. Not being able to see is making all of his other senses so much more intense. He imagines the view from Malfoy's perspective--Harry on his knees before him, slightly bent forward, the plug's base flush against his arse--and then how it might look to someone outside of the room, looking in from a neighbouring building perhaps. It's a thrilling image that makes Harry's prick jump in front of him.

"Circe, I could come across your arse, Potter." Malfoy chokes out, his hand slapping quickly behind Harry's back. "Shoot my spunk all over that perfect skin."

"Please," Harry asks, but he has no idea what he's asking for. Everything, really. He wants to come. He wants Malfoy to come. He doesn't really care about the particulars. The vibrations inside of him are steadily shaking him apart, and his bollocks are so high and tight against his body that Harry doesn't know how much longer he'll be able to hold off.

And then Malfoy swears, breathing hard as the sound of his wanking stops. Harry sits silently, listening to Malfoy's gasps settle, to the creak of the sofa as Malfoy shifts on it, rolling his hips. 

"Merlin," Malfoy says faintly, and Harry wonders if Malfoy came. He's disappointed if he did. He'd at least wanted to feel the warmth of Malfoy's spunk smearing across his arse.

The sofa creaks again as Malfoy gets up. Harry hears Malfoy step around him, feels the brush of Malfoy's hip against his shoulders, then Harry jerks as there's a sharp twinge as Malfoy pinches both of his nipples, hard. Harry groans. "God. Fuck. Malfoy."

Malfoy laughs, and the velvet sound of it is like a hand around Harry's prick. "Can I fuck your mouth, Potter? Only I'd love to, if you're okay with that."

Harry gets his lips wet. "Yes. Fuck. Yes. I want to suck you." He opens his mouth, curving his lips over his teeth.

Harry tastes salty bitterness as Malfoy rubs the wet head of his prick against Harry's lips, then pulls back. Malfoy tastes so good; Harry's frantic with it. He inhales the musky sweetness of Malfoy's skin. "Oh God, yes," Harry says. "I need to taste you again. Please."

"Yes," Malfoy says on a soft exhale, and then Malfoy's fingers tangle in Harry's hair, his cock pressing into Harry's mouth. Harry opens his throat and swallows. Malfoy's hips are careful, pressing but not shoving hard just yet.

"Fuck, you are such an amazing cocksucker, Harry Potter," Malfoy says, and there's a softness to his voice that shifts into a quiet groan. "I wish you could watch this because I've never seen anything so beautiful as my prick sliding down your throat."

Harry's heart expands in his chest. He gags a little as Malfoy presses in deeper, breathes in through his nostrils. Malfoy strokes the swell of Harry's cheek, where the tip of his cock bobs in and out of Harry's mouth. 

The vibrations of the plug in his arse are driving Harry mad, coupled with the smell and taste of Malfoy, and Harry almost doesn't know what to feel. His entire body is trembling, sensitive and stimulated. His prick is rock hard, but he can feel the tenderness in Malfoy's touch too, and that's a lockpick to his heart.

"I'm going to fuck your mouth now," Malfoy says, a bit more roughly, and his cock goes deeper down Harry's throat, his fingers pull harder at Harry's hair. "If it's too much, go limp."

Harry can't see anything, he can just feel and hear, and Malfoy's making the dirtiest, filthiest sounds as he thrusts his cock into Harry's willing mouth, but they're sweet too, soft, keening noises filled with promises of pleasure and lust and need. Harry can feel Malfoy's thighs trembling against his shoulders, and he almost thinks Malfoy's going to come, but Malfoy pulls his prick away and it slides out of Harry's mouth. Harry groans in exasperation--he was so fucking close. He _is_ so fucking close. Harry's so turned on; he thinks he might never come.

"Please," Harry manages. "I need--" He bites his lip, his hips bucking forward, his prick hitting Malfoy's calf. The unexpected pressure sends a shudder rippling through Harry's body.

Malfoy slips off the blindfold, touching Harry's face. "Soon," he whispers, and Harry blinks up at him. When his eyes focus again, he can tell Malfoy looks wrecked, his face soft and yet terrible. And Christ, but Harry loves Malfoy so goddamn much, doesn't he? He'll do anything Malfoy wants right now. Harry's hard and leaking and he wants to come so badly, and his arse feels as if it's on goddamned fire with the vibrations from the plug. 

Harry just nods, his chest heaving.

Malfoy just watches him for a long moment, his grey eyes level. "Say the charm to stop the vibrations," he says finally. "I want to make you come. Not a toy."

Harry barely remembers how to talk, but he gets the words of the charm out. It takes him two tries, but then the vibrations stop, and his body is hollow and throbbing around the plug. It still feels amazing, but it's like having a rush of noise to his nerves turned off.

Malfoy releases the restraint-bonds with a wave of his wand, and he pulls Harry to his feet, kissing his lips softly for a moment. Harry shifts, his shoulders and wrists numb, his ankles protesting. Malfoy holds Harry up, rubbing circulation back into him, then nudges him towards the window ledge.

As Harry rests his palms on the ledge, his prick pressing into it, Malfoy comes up behind him. "I want you to keep your palms flat on this ledge and look out over Brooklyn," Malfoy says quietly. " I'm going to fuck you whilst you look at the place where you kissed him this morning." His hands slide down Harry's back, grip Harry's hips. "And you're going to come thinking about me."

Harry shivers, and then Malfoy's nudging his legs apart, his long, slim fingers prodding at Harry's arse, slipping inside him around the flare of the plug. Harry's knees are weak, and his arse feels incredible. Malfoy fingers the rim of his arse a little, playing with the base of the plug, pulling it back and forth. Harry groans.

"Yeah, you're dying to be fucked, aren't you?" Malfoy asks. His voice is shaking a bit. "Merlin, I can't let you out of my sight or you'll go spread your legs for that arsehole you used to date, won't you?"

"No," Harry says, the word raw in his throat. "Only for you, baby." 

There's a sharp intake of breath behind him. "Potter, you bastard." Malfoy's voice breaks, and he presses his face against Harry's shoulder, breathing out for a long moment. "You have no fucking idea how easily you can destroy me," he whispers, and Harry thinks perhaps he wasn't meant to hear that. They're still, pressed against each other, Malfoy's arms wrapped tightly around Harry's chest. Harry grips the edge of the window ledge, looking out at the East River and the lights of the traffic along the Brooklyn Bridge. 

And then Malfoy shifts, drawing in an unsteady breath, and he casts a binding spell again, fastening Harry's wrists to the ledge. Harry's legs are spread wide, but Malfoy pushes them even wider, still fingering the rim of Harry's arse with the plug still in it, and when he finally pulls the plug out in one quick, easy move, Harry thinks he might die.

Fuck, Harry needs to come. Soon.

Malfoy steps away, his pale body reflected in the window, and when he comes back, there's more lube, and more fingers inside of Harry. 

"I love how your arse feels, Potter. It's like velvet inside, so smooth." Malfoy's voice is rough, and his fingers are amazing, long and skilled as they twist into Harry's body. "And you're so hungry for cock, aren't you? You need to be fucked." 

Jesus but Harry's basically humping the ledge, watching the city and the river and the lights of Brooklyn glimmering in the distance. Jake's out there, Harry knows. Down Atlantic, then a right on Nevins, then two blocks more to Dean. In a small garden apartment that Harry knows so fucking well. 

And Harry'd rather be here. With Malfoy taking his goddamned breath away.

"I'm going to fuck you now," Malfoy says against Harry's ear, his fingers sliding from Harry's body. "All right?"

Harry nods.

"Keep watching the fucking Bridge." Malfoy pushes inside of Harry, and Harry groans with the fullness of him, the way Malfoy's prick fills Harry's arse, stretches it. He's shaking and his nerves are jangling. Malfoy's hips press forward, and Harry's looking at the Promenade, but even though Malfoy's prick isn't as thick as Jake's it goes deeper, and Harry's never felt this goddamned spread open before. Harry cries out, so close now, so caught up in the wash of looking out over the city, the breathlessness of it, and feeling only Malfoy.

Malfoy reaches around and starts to pull Harry's cock. "You're mine, Potter. Not his. Mine. And I don't share." He punctuates his words with his hips, thrusting into Harry to underscore his point. "You're not going to kiss him again, are you?"

"No. No I won't." Harry whispers. "I'm yours, Malfoy. Oh, Christ, I'm yours." 

At that, Malfoy stiffens, crying out, his fingers digging hard and angry into Harry's hips, and then Harry feels Malfoy come wetly inside him. Malfoy slumps against Harry's back, shaking.

Harry's shaking too, but he's still not there without Malfoy touching his prick. He begs Malfoy, "Please, let me come. Fuck. Goddamn."

Malfoy kisses Harry's shoulder, breathing out then he releases the binding charms. He shoves Harry around, Harry's back pressing painfully against the ledge, and before Harry can protest, Malfoy sinks to his knees and swallows Harry's cock nearly to the root. "Fuck. Fuck, Malfoy. Oh my god. Your mouth. Jesus." Harry's hands grip Malfoy's head, his fingers tangling in his hair, and Harry presses his hips up, fucking Malfoy's throat in ragged, shaking thrusts.

Harry's voice is getting louder and louder, and he worries that it's carrying into the hallway, but he's too turned on to care. Malfoy's mouth is fucking incredible, and he's seeing stars already. He thinks he's bracing himself, hopes he's not going to fall, and then Malfoy's throat clenches around his prick and Harry loses it, his entire body seizing and convulsing as curses and moans spill from his lips and it goes on forever, the blind, shaking madness of it and the shuddering, terrifying plunge.

 _I love you,_ Harry thinks, and his hand curves around Malfoy's face as his body slumps, his prick sliding wetly out of Malfoy's mouth. 

They're both silent, and then Malfoy stands up, with a wince as a knee cracks. 

"Sorry," Harry says, but he's not certain why. Malfoy just gives him a small smile, and he pulls Harry to the bedroom, lays him across the white duvet before curling up behind Harry, his hand on Harry's hip. 

Neither of them speak. 

Harry breathes out, feels Malfoy's warmth behind him, then he says, "I won't kiss anyone else."

Malfoy huffs a soft laugh against Harry's shoulder. "You'd better not." His fingers flex against Harry's hip. "I really don't share well. I never have."

"I'm getting that." Harry stares out the window onto the shining lights of the buildings around them. The bedroom light is off; it's quiet and cool and almost dark where they're lying twined together. 

Malfoy's fingertips circle over Harry's hipbone. "I'm sorry."

"Why?" Harry turns to look over his shoulder, but Malfoy pushes Harry's head back. 

"Don't look at me," Malfoy says, his voice sharp. "I can't say the things I need to say if you do."

Harry settles back against his pillow. He can see their reflection in the window, his body first, Malfoy's pale limbs wrapped around him. 

"I know we're just fucking," Malfoy says after a moment. "We don't have an arrangement of any sorts, and there's no rational reason for me to be so angry at you."

"But." Harry lies still, feeling the soft movement of Malfoy's palm over his waist. 

Malfoy presses his forehead against Harry's shoulder. He's silent. Harry waits. And then Malfoy breathes out. "Nicholas," he says, and Harry tenses. "Nicholas cheated on me. A lot. Never bothered to hide it. Never cared if I knew." He stops, and Harry balls his hands into fists, wanting to pummel that fucking arsehole Lyndon again. A million times, if it would make that ache in Malfoy's voice disappear. 

"He's a prick," Harry says, jaw tight. 

Malfoy's thumb smoothes across Harry's hipbone. "He used to talk me into threesomes with people he wanted to fuck," Malfoy says, his voice so soft. Quiet. "I thought I had to in order to keep him--"

Harry turns then, a wave of rage going through him on Malfoy's behalf, and he catches Malfoy's hand, slipping his fingers through Malfoy's. "I would never."

The look on Malfoy's face is raw and unhappy. "I know." He bites his lip. "The thing is, Potter, I don't want you to fuck other people." He draws in a ragged breath. "It's only me or nothing."

The fierceness of the feelings that wash over Harry is nearly overwhelming. "Jesus, Malfoy," he breathes out. "It's only you." He smoothes Malfoy's hair back from his face. "I was an idiot today. I got caught up in a moment--"

"And that's what I'm afraid of," Malfoy says quietly. "It only takes a moment."

Harry leans over Malfoy, presses him back into the mattress, his knuckles brushing across Malfoy's cheek. "Only you. I promise."

Malfoy studies him, and then his face softens, the worry seeping away. "Is that a Gryffindor promise?"

"A very, _very_ Gryffindor promise," Harry says, and he lets his lips brush Malfoy's. They're warm and soft beneath his. "I think you're stuck with me for a while, you Slytherin arsehole."

Malfoy laughs, warm and throaty. "However will I survive?" He tangles his fingers in Harry's hair, his eyes gentle. 

And Harry rolls over, pulling Malfoy across him, his arms wrapped around the man he loves, their mouths catching one another's, their kiss long and slow and sweet. 

However long this lasts, Harry thinks, he's Malfoy's. 

Completely.

***

Draco startles awake, dreams of excruciating pain and a circle of wizards and witches in dark robes and silver engraved masks around him jerking him from sleep. His heart's pounding, his left forearm aches, and Draco puts his hand over it almost reflexively as he sits up. 

"Everything okay?" Potter asks, sleepily, his rumpled dark hair sticking up from beneath the white duvet.

"It's fine." Draco slips out of bed. He's never had a dream that clear, that intense about the night he was Marked. His hands are shaking, his legs unsteady. "Go back to sleep."

Potter mumbles something into his pillow. 

Draco makes his way into the bathroom, flipping on the light. He stares at himself in the mirror, at his sunken cheeks, and his tangled hair. There are dark circles beneath his eyes, purplish smudges that only highlight how pale his skin is. His stomach twists. He's still feeling raw, vulnerable from opening himself up to Potter the way he had, admitting what he'd needed to admit. Draco scrubs at his face, splashes cool water across his flushed cheeks. It'll be good in the long run, he thinks. He hopes. But right now he feels as if he wants to claw out of his skin. 

He breathes in, then exhales slowly, letting the panic bleed out with each small huff of air. 

The pounding in his veins settles, but his forearm still burns. Draco turns it over, and his breath hitches once more. 

Beneath the ridges of his scar tissue, he can see the edges of his Mark, grey in places, darkening in others, almost as if it's forcing its way to the surface. Draco stumbles backwards, catches himself on the sink before he falls. 

Potter's bottle of Penhaligon's Douro cologne crashes off the counter, shattering against the tile. The sweet scent of neroli and bergamot fills the bathroom. 

Draco makes a noise, sharp and loud, and Potter's there, reaching for Draco amongst the shards of glass. "What's wrong?"

Draco's shaking, his arm stretched out, and Potter's breath stills. They look at each other, and then a faint green glint in the sky behind Potter catches Draco's eye. He pushes past Potter, goes out into the sitting room where the windows are wide, the curtains still pushed open. 

Far away, up above the Brooklyn Bridge, the last fading remnants of a green skull glows. Draco can't breathe, can't think, can't anything. He stands still, watching it, his whole body cold.

"That's Greenpoint," Potter says, and then he swings into full Auror mode, grabbing his trousers from the floor and digging for his mobile. He rings a number and says, "We have a problem."

Draco barely pays attention to the conversation. His arm throbs. He looks down at it. The skull and serpent are both mangled, twisted by the way his scars have grown, but he can make the Mark out again. 

Potter puts his mobile down. "Malfoy," he says, and Draco looks at him blankly. 

And then the Mark flares into a red-hot fire, sending Draco to his knees, shrieking in sheer agony. It's never been this bad, not even when the Dark Lord Summoned him, and Draco's whole body is wracked with pain, writhing on the floor with Potter beside him, pulling him close, holding him until the spasms fade away.

Draco breathes into Potter's shoulder, his face wet, his hands tight around Potter's arms. Potter lifts him up, carries him to the sofa. 

Potter sits with him for a moment before he says, "I need to get dressed and go into MACUSA."

Draco nods. He knows this. He looks at Potter. "I have to go." His voice is raw from screaming.

"You don't have to," Potter says, and he brushes Draco's hair back from his face. 

But he does. Draco can't be alone now. Not if that happens again. "Please," he says. "Don't make me stay." Not without you, he wants to say. He doesn't.

Potter looks at Draco for a long moment, and then he nods, standing. He looks out the window, rubbing a hand over his face. "Jesus," he breathes out, looking over at the Morsmordre. Draco comes up next to him, lets Potter slip an arm around his waist. 

Draco hasn't been this fucking scared for eight goddamned years. 

The last glimmers of green fall from the sky.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, you can subscribe to this fic for chapter updates, or you can subscribe for series updates [here on AO3](http://archiveofourown.org/series/661862) or follow me [on tumblr at femmequixotic!](http://femmequixotic.tumblr.com).
> 
> I'm on vacation with my mom for the next two weeks-ish, and will be in a car with her for seven hours next Saturday so Chapter Seven of These Secrets In Me will be posted on Sunday, July 16! Because I love you all, but I'm not editing Harry/Draco porn in the car with my mom looking over my shoulder. /0\


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Harry is suspicious, Draco's arm hurts, and Althea regrets. Oh, and Blaise and Jake finally go out for a drink. ALL IN ONE DAY.
> 
> **Chapter warnings for serious angst, past traumatic memories for several characters, PTSD, angry quarrelling, and frayed nerves.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As I write this, I am on one of the loveliest beaches ever and furiously typing away to buy myself some time in the ocean. I have enjoyed reading your comments on the road here and seeing the fic reflected through your kaleidoscopic perspectives. It's actually helped me clarify things in the fic for myself as well, and I hope some of your questions are answered in this chapter.
> 
> Continuing thanks to sassy_cissa for reading as I wrote and to Noe for mobile beta support and for listening to me read whole chunks of this as I wrote it in the car as she drove and telling me what worked and what didn't. <3 <3 <3
> 
> This chapter has a heavy warning for past self-harm, PTSD triggers, past threats (but not substantiation) of physical and sexual violence, and general viciousness on the part of a hell of a lot of people. I'd love to keep all these characters safe and give them a good night's sleep, but sadly that wouldn't make for exciting fic. Woe. *hands out band-aids* I promise in the end, everything will work out, but the rollercoaster is hitting a few angsty drops and curves.

The Greenpoint Auror Detention Facility is a bloody madhouse by the time Harry arrives with his team in tow. Frankly, he doesn't think Malfoy should have come with them, but Malfoy'd stubbornly refused to stay back in the hotel, and Harry hadn't had the time or the energy to argue properly with him. 

It's nearly half-one, according to Harry's watch, as they step past the Aurors at the door of the low-slung warehouse. Graves has already rung Harry's mobile twice demanding that he get his damned arse down there immediately. Harry ducks beneath a cordon charm, showing his warrant card to the wide-eyed, young Auror, and she waves them in. Her hair's rumpled and mussed as if she'd just rolled out of bed when the alarm came in, and Harry suspects that's actually the case. 

None of them were expecting this. 

He touches Malfoy's elbow as they enter the long, grey corridor past the door. "You all right?" he asks, but Harry already knows the answer. Malfoy's pale--more so than usual--and his forehead's sweaty. He's in pain still, Harry knows, but the bastard's not willing to let anyone see it. Not him, not his friends. Zabini and Parkinson are watching Malfoy, have been since the team met down in the hotel lobby, all of them grim and silent as Harry explained what had happened. 

A break-in at the detention facility. A Morsmordre in the sky. He didn't mention Malfoy's Mark; he doesn't know why, but it hadn't felt the moment to bring it up. Besides, Whitaker had gone ashen at the mention of the Morsmordre, and Harry knows she has to be thinking about the night her mum died. The Death Eaters had used that gleaming green skull for many things, including to mark their kills. Harry's not so certain she should be here either. 

"Malfoy," Harry says, when he realises Malfoy's not paying attention, and Malfoy finally blinks and looks over at Harry. "All right there?"

"Yes," Malfoy says, but there's a quiet blankness to his face that worries Harry before he glances away. 

The rectangular panel at the end of the hallway, the one used for magical signatures and visitor registration, is blown half away, almost as if someone's taken a Muggle explosive to it. Etched into the remainder of the steel are fingerprints, splayed wide, along with what looks like the top of a palm print, and Harry looks back at Parkinson. "I want you on that immediately," he says, pointing to the panel. "See if it matches Dolohov's."

Parkinson nods, her mouth set into a thin line. She already knows she's to work the scene with the American magiforensicologists. Harry'd cleared that with Graves the first time the man had rung him. 

Harry steps through the open doorway into another hall, this one painted a bright lemony yellow. The door itself has been incinerated. Only bits of it remain, steel fragments hanging off thick metal hinges. 

"Merlin," Zabini breathes out, eyeing them. "That was a powerful spell."

Harry can feel Malfoy shudder next to him. He rests his hand on the back of Malfoy's arm, not giving a fuck who sees them. It's more important to him that Malfoy feels safe. Protected. At least as best as Harry can do in the moment. 

Malfoy pulls away, stiffening his shoulders, his fists clenched into fists at his side. He doesn't look at Harry. "I'd lay Galleons down that it was a Bombarda Maxima," Malfoy says. "The Dark Lord rather liked imploding things with it." His voice is faint, a little bit wobbly, but his face is resolute. "People too. Sometimes."

And what really can Harry say to that?

They turn the corner, and there's a cluster of Aurors, some of them bent over a body sprawled across the floor. 

"Jesus," Whitaker says, her voice catching. Parkinson slides her arm through hers, as one of the Aurors pulls a body bag spell up the man's body, closing it up over his freckled face. There's blood smeared on the floor beneath him, a rivulet of it running across the concrete.

"You'll be fine," Parkinson says from behind Harry. "It's not Wrightson." Her voice softens, goes quieter. "Or your mum." 

Whitaker just nods, but Harry's not certain she's going to stay on her feet. Parkinson catches her, holds her steady. Whitaker draws in a raspy breath, closing her eyes for a moment. 

Fucking Christ, Harry thinks. This is going to be hard for all of them. He pushes his own panic down, tries to lock away the terror he'd felt when he'd first caught sight of the Morsmordre. That's what Dolohov wants them to feel, all of them. There's no other sodding reason for shooting it into the sky.

It's a fucking celebration of death.

"Harry." Graves' voice rings out down the corridor. "It's about goddamned time." He's striding towards them, the click of his boots on the concrete floor loud in the quiet hum of the Auror conversations around him, and his face looks fierce and angry. And then his gaze flicks to Malfoy, and there's a shift in his expression that Harry doesn't bloody well like.

And, trusting his instincts, Harry turns to Zabini. "Keep Malfoy away from Graves as much as you can," he says under his breath. "Do you understand?"

Zabini looks at him blankly. "What?"

Harry doesn't have time to explain. "Just trust me on this." He doesn't want Graves to know about Malfoy's Mark flaring. Not yet, and he doesn't trust Graves not to poke at Malfoy with Legilimency, not if he suspects there's something he might find. It'll come out soon enough, but not right now. Not whilst Malfoy's still shaking from the pain of it. He looks Zabini in the eye. "Please."

It takes a moment, but Zabini nods. "We'll check in with the Auror in charge."

"Take Whitaker with you," Harry says. He glances at Malfoy, who's barely even paying attention to him. Malfoy's white shirtsleeve is pulled down over his left forearm, the cuff twisted in his fingers, and Harry can tell by the way he's breathing that he's hurting still. Jesus. Harry wonders if he should have told Zabini take Draco to Bonavista instead. He wouldn't go to hospital willingly though. Harry knows that much. Fuck, but the man's a bloody stubborn git. He sighs and looks over at Parkinson. "Get on the forensics," he snaps, a bit too forcefully. "Anything you find out, it comes to me first, yeah?"

"All right, guv." Parkinson glances at Whitaker. "Blaise'll keep an eye on you."

Whitaker gives her a faint smile. "I'm all right," she says, but she's studiously not looking over at the bagged body. Fuck, Harry thinks. It's only been a week since she saw Wrightson on the floor of his cell. She's not ready for this sort of thing. Not in an Auror facility. Not again. 

Zabini pulls Malfoy and Whitaker away just as Graves walks up. Harry turns to him, putting his body between Graves and Malfoy as a buffer. "What do we have?" Harry asks. He can feel his team slipping away behind him; Graves frowns as he watches them go before turning his attention back to Harry. 

Graves motions for Harry to walk with him. "Antonin Dolohov and other personages not as of yet identified broke into the facility forty-five minutes ago. Two guards were killed: Billy Ogden who's one of our usual night guards down here at the desk, and Natalie Tocco. She was downstairs at the time. Wasn't scheduled to work, but she took on a double-shift today so another Auror could spend the night with his daughter who's sick." Graves shakes his head, his mouth tightening. Harry remembers he has three kids of his own, two of them primary school girls. "Peter's going to be gutted when he finds out."

Harry stops, looks back at the guard desk. "Only two went down?" That seems a bit improbable to him. Not given the force that Dolohov used to get into the building.

"Only two died," Graves corrects. He sticks his hands in his pockets and rocks forward on his heels. "So far, at least. Six more are in hospital, everything from minor spell damage to a young man who's going to need major reconstructive work on the side of his face, if he even makes it through the night. One eye and half his sinus cavity's gone, but for now he's still alive, thank Christ." Graves looks tired and unhappy. The man can be a bastard, Harry thinks, but he supports the witches and wizards beneath him. For the most part. 

"And the prisoners?" Harry knows there must be a reason Dolohov came here. He wanted something. Or someone. 

Graves walks on, leading Harry down another hallway, through a once-locked door that now sags on one hinge, its door jambs scorched, the metal twisted and fragmented. "This is our special cell block," Graves says, leading Harry down a flight of dirty, grim steps. "For those individuals we'd like to hold a bit…" He hesitates. "Well, let's just call them overdue, yes? National security protocols let us keep this section a bit more hidden all around."

Harry's stomach twists. "You're holding them without cause."

"Without charge," Graves admits. He looks back at Harry as they walk into a corridor filled with iron-barred cells. "There's always cause to be here, Harry."

The cells are empty. All of them. Espinoza's down at the end, just outside the last cell, watching the magiforensicologists sweeping the floor with their detection spells, and she looks up as they approach. "Sir," she says to Graves, and then she nods to Harry before glancing back at her boss. "Jake and Martine took Eddie to Bonavista," she says. "Cozza went with them as the Auror on record, given Jake's personal relationship with the suspect."

And Harry stills, because he'd forgotten, hadn't he? Christ, he's a shit. He'd been so worried about Malfoy and even Whitaker, and he'd forgotten that Jake's brother Eddie was here. Charming, caustic, witty Eddie who drove Jake mad and who was the only thing Jake really had left of his family. He looks over at Espinoza, distraught. "Tell me Eddie's all right."

Espinoza hesitates, and Harry's heart skips a beat. Not Eddie. Please. It'll kill Jake to lose him. "He's alive," she says finally. "If that's what you can call it. Catatonic, unresponsive, really." She rubs at the back of her neck. She's in a MACUSA hoodie and jeans, and her hair's in a messy ponytail, her dark hair half-pulled through her hair tie, the ends sticking out every which way. "We're not going to get much of a statement from him. Not tonight at least."

Graves nods, his arms folded over his chest. Harry shivers, hopes Jake's all right. There's part of him that wants to be there by his side, gripping his hand whilst he waits for the Healers to work on Eddie. But Harry knows that's not his place anymore. Jake has Martine with him, and Harry's glad to know he's not alone. It doesn't stop him from worrying though, and judging from Espinoza's expression, she feels the same way. 

"So," Harry says after a moment, "was this just to scare Eddie off? Keep him from talking to us?"

"Not entirely." Graves nods towards another cell, and Harry watches as Parkinson steps into the hall, wearing a crisp white cleansuit and following another woman similarly dressed. Parkinson tucks her hair up into a white cap before glancing his way. She nods at Harry, her mouth turned down, and walks into the cell Graves just pointed out. "Les Harkaway's gone from that cell," Graves says quietly. "Not a trace so far." He shifts his gaze down to another cell, across the room. And another prisoner, one we caught in a potions bust over in Long Island City's gone. Zachary Weiss."

Espinoza walks up to Harry's other side. "We think that's what Dolohov broke in for. To get Weiss and Harkaway."

"Fuck only knows why," Graves adds. "In Weiss's case at least. He's not connected to the warehouse raid, to Eddie Durant or to Les Harkaway as far as we know."

"The Old Man's grandson," Harry murmurs, and Graves gives him a sharp look. "Harkaway," Harry clarifies.

"What?" Graves turns towards him, and his eyes are narrowed. "The Old Man?"

Harry nods. "That's what an informant told us today in Brighton Beach. It's in our writeup; I think Jake was submitting it tomorrow morning." He runs his hands over his face, pushing up his glasses before he lets them slip back down onto the bridge of his nose. "We don't have a name, but he seems to have been important in the Russian wizarding community. If a bit dodgy."

Graves looks at Espinoza. "I want everything in the database on known individuals from that end of Brooklyn--"

"Harkaway's from Boston," Harry says, and they both glance at him. He shrugs and crosses his arms over his chest. "That's just what our guy said."

Espinoza nods. "That's what Malfoy and Martine reported, sir."

"Then cross-reference both places," Graves says, his voice sharp. "I want it on my desk as soon as you get back to the office."

"Yes, sir." Espinoza looks exhausted, and Graves' face softens. 

"After you sleep a bit," Graves says, and he touches her shoulder. "You don't need to go right now. We've got tracking and magiforensics on top priority." His attention's caught by a movement near the door. "And I was wondering when the rest of your cadre would arrive."

Harry looks over in surprise; Hermione's striding towards them, in a bright blue and green wrap dress and heels that click loudly across the floor, a satchel banging against her hip. She looks almost out of place amongst the jeans and jumpers of the MACUSA crowd until Harry realises she must have Portkeyed over from work; she'd been just getting dressed when he'd made that first mobile call to her, Malfoy trembling beside him, staring out in shock at the Brooklyn sky. He'd rung Hermione before he'd rung MACUSA, because Harry trusted Hermione more than anyone here, particularly when it came to a Morsmordre hanging above the New York skyline.

"Saul sent me," Hermione says, and she looks around. "With Gawain and Kingsley's approval, of course." She looks over at Harry. "Thanks for letting me know."

He nods, and Graves raises an eyebrow at him. 

"The Morsmordre," Harry says, his voice flat. "This may have happened on your soil, in your jurisdiction, but Hermione and I spent years going up against these fuckers--"

He breaks off as he sees a familiar shock of ginger hair over the shoulder of one of the Auror guards at the door, hears a familiar voice say hotly, "I have a bloody Order of Merlin second class, you wankers, from the fucking Queen herself, and my wife and my best mate are in there, so you're going to fucking let me in or I'll cause a bloody international incident that'll make you look like a right twat."

Hermione's mouth quirks and she glances at Harry. "When he heard what happened, I couldn't keep him away. Even if I tried."

For a moment Harry's almost overwhelmed. He nearly misses Graves quick motion towards the Auror, who steps back and lets Ron into the cell block, even though the Auror looks damned unhappy about it.

Ron walks up and claps Harry on the back. "You're all right, yeah?" He leans back and studies Harry's face, his brow furrowing in worry. 

"I'm fine," Harry says. And he is. He resists reaching up and touching his scar. It hasn't hurt at all, not since that nightmare he'd had, Christ, had it only been a week and a half ago? The only person who knows about that is Malfoy, and Harry's not thinking about the fact that he'd woken up from a nightmare with his scar throbbing not that long before Malfoy had woken up to his Mark scorching through his arm. The Auror in him thinks they must be interconnected. The rest of him hopes to whatever fucking deity might be listening that they're not.

Still, he's bloody glad to see Ron, he has to admit. And to be standing here between him and Hermione, a tired, battle-scarred trio. "How'd you get them to let you come?"

"Threw a wobbly at Kingsley," Ron says, a sour smile creasing his freckled face. "Told him I wasn't going to let my wife walk into a Death Eater trap. Already did that more than once, didn't we?" He eyes Graves. "You're the MACUSA bloke."

Graves looks half-amused. "Tom Graves." He holds out his hand. "Director of Magical Security and the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement."

Ron takes Graves' hand, shakes it. "Ronald Weasley. Ex-Auror-in-training, current businessman. Kept this bloke--" He jerks his head towards Harry. "Alive long enough to get these sodding bastards the first time."

Espinoza's glancing between Ron and Hermione, her face curious, but she keeps quiet. 

Hermione turns to Graves. "Your people have verified it was the Morsmordre?"

"They're studying the spell residue right now," Graves says. "And cross-referencing it with photographic evidence and known traces of Morsmordre activity."

Hermione nods. She glances back over her shoulder, and says, "Parkinson!"

It takes a moment, but Parkinson comes out of the cell, a preoccupied scowl on her face. "What?" She's a bit taken aback when she sees Hermione turn towards her. "Merlin, not another bloody goddamned Unspeakable." She snaps her gloves off, Vanishing them. "I'm done with you lot."

"Goldstein," Harry says to Hermione, whose mouth twists to one side, as if she knows the score there. Hell, Harry thinks, she probably does. 

"Fuck off, guv," Parkinson says, and she looks at Hermione. "What do you want, Granger?" Her gaze flicks towards Ron, but she has the sense not to say anything about him being there. 

Hermione pulls a thick file folder out of her satchel and hands it over. "Morsmordre research. Everything unredacted that I could talk Saul into letting us share." She looks over at Graves. "It stays with Constable Parkinson. We're willing to have it used within this investigation, but given that it's British intel, he's requiring that it remain under the supervision of a British officer."

"Fair enough," Graves says, tilting his head. "You'll allow Jake Durant to access it, though."

"Within parameters." Hermione meets his gaze evenly. "It doesn't reside on the MACUSA servers."

Parkinson's looking back and forth between them. "How'm I supposed to run tests then?" she asks. 

Hermione pulls a small thumb drive from her satchel and hands it over. "Everything you need should be there, along with an encryption charm that won't allow data to be transferred onto the MACUSA database. Sorry that it's a bit clunky, but Croaker's only willing to let our special relationship with our cousins here across the pond go so far." 

"Ouch," Graves says, but there's a smile playing across his lips. Hermione shrugs. 

"It's not as if you lot haven't burnt us before," she says lightly. "Is it?" Graves tilts his head, as if acknowledging her point, and Hermione shifts her satchel back over her hip. "Besides, if you'd answer your mobile, you'd have already heard from Saul; Kingsley wants a joint Anglo-American task force on this. Immediately." She turns to Harry. "Once we get things settled here, you and I need to go back for a DMLE meeting."

Harry's stomach sinks. He doesn't want to leave Malfoy alone. Not the way he is right now. "My team," he starts to say, and Parkinson catches his eye. 

"We'll be fine," Parkinson says, and she presses the file jacket between her hands. The look she's giving him is intent. "All of us. If you need to go." And he knows then that she's certain something's going on with Malfoy. Zabini will fill her in, he's certain, and he nods. 

"Thanks." Harry still doesn't want to go, but he looks over at Hermione. "When?"

Hermione shrugs. Graves is frowning down at his mobile, thumbing through it. "Later today," she says, with a sideways look at Ron. Ron nods. Harry doesn't like how vague the timing sounds or the feeling that plans are being made without him. 

"It'd be bloody nice to know when I'm expected to be at the Minister's beck and call," Harry says, and he's starting to get irritated with Hermione. He knows he's being a bit of a shit, particularly given he'd asked for her help, but Hermione can get presumptuous when she's serving as Croaker's proxy. He knows by the look Ron shoots him that his annoyance is starting to show. He tries to reign it in. "Particularly if I'm to be leaving my team over here without me."

"Saul will arrange the Portkey for us through MACUSA," Hermione says, giving him the cool look she always turns on him when he's starting to lose his temper, "but I'm expecting it to be late in the afternoon, New York time. Just to make certain we have all the information we need." Her face softens, almost as if she knows what--or whom--he's worried about. "You're the British SIO on record, Harry. You have to be there."

And that's it, isn't it. Harry doesn't have a fucking choice in any of this. He sighs, and nods, then glances over at Parkinson. "Whatever you need, you'll get. And if these bastards try to stonewall you, come to me."

"Not necessary," Graves says, and he puts his mobile back in his pocket. "I'll have Constable Parkinson placed on all the necessary lists to bypass security protocols for this one incident."

Parkinson miniaturises the file Hermione gave her and slides it into the zippered pocket of her cleansuit. "Thanks." She glances back to the cell. "Can I go back and do my fucking job now?"

Harry waves her off, and she hurries back over to the cell.

Graves looks over at Harry. "Your team is dedicated. I'll grant them that." He seems a bit surprised by that. Harry doesn't know the hell why. 

"And fucking good at what they do," Harry says, and he's proud of them, his messed up little team of misfits and Slytherins. "When they're given a clear mandate."

"That's so very true, isn't it?" Hermione smiles at Harry, but it doesn't quite reach her eyes. She exchanges a look with Graves, and Harry has a sense there is something a bit off. They're being too nice, he realises. Both of them. Or Harry's so fucking tired and time-lagged still that he's lost track of the plot. "Tom, a word, if I may?"

Graves nods and steps away, bending his head towards Hermione's. They murmur softly, and Hermione glances over at Harry, a frown furrowing her brow. That's never a good sign, Harry thinks.

Whilst Hermione confers with Graves, Ron approaches him. "All right there, mate?" Ron asks, scanning Harry's face.

"Yeah." Harry tries to smile. He's missed Ron, and whatever else, it's nice to have a reason to see him again without having to make arrangements that inevitably fall through when their schedules get too busy. He probably needs to make more time to see his oldest friend, he thinks, and the familiar guilt roils in the pit of his stomach.

Ron sticks his hands in his pockets. "Got any time for breakfast?" His voice is a bit too light, almost as if he's trying to distract Harry. Harry's eyes narrow at him. 

"Today?" Harry gives Ron a sharp look. "In the middle of all this?"

"You have to eat." Ron meets his gaze evenly. "Even in the middle of all this."

Harry shrugs. He's probably just worked up because of the Morsmordre. He needs to be more trusting. "Maybe." His gaze flicks over to Hermione and Graves, who've stepped back. Graves nods to Hermione, then walks away. "I'll need to kip first, if I can."

Ron glances back at his wife. He rests his hand on the small of her back. "Everything good?"

Hermione gives him a small, if unhappy, smile. "We'll see." She turns to Harry, and her face grows sour. "I need to talk to you, and you're not going to like it."

Fuck, Harry thinks. He turns to Ron, who looks away, rocking forward on his feet. Whatever this is about, Ron knows about it. Harry's starting to feel as if he's being blindsided by both of them.

This isn't going to go well, he thinks. Not tonight.

***

Jake's sat next to a levitating stretcher in the middle of the emergency room at Bonavista, the oldest wizarding hospital in the United States, holding Eddie's hand. Eddie's curled on his side in a foetal position, as he had been when Jake had found him on the floor of his cell at Greenpoint, blue eyes fixed, staring ahead. Every so often a shudder wracks his whole body, and his hand tightens around Jake's, so hard that Jake nearly thinks his fingers are going to break. He doesn't drop Eddie's hand even then. He needs those moments to know that Eddie's still there. Somewhere.

"It's okay, Ed," he murmurs, and he wraps his other hand around both of theirs, cradling Eddie's spasming fingers between his. His thumb strokes along Eddie's, and he looks down at this man with his brown hair that falls over his forehead and the faint scar across his chin that came from the time he fell off the front stoop when he was twelve, trying to teach a four-year-old Jake how to throw a Quod before it exploded. Jake hadn't made it at one point, and the resulting bang had thrown both of them off the stoop. Mama had only had enough reaction time to throw a Cushioning Charm at one of them; she'd gone after Jake first, and Ed had slammed chin first into the lowest step, the cement edge tearing across his skin. Jake barely remembered it, although he knew there'd been blood and screaming, and Mama had never let either of them play Quodpot in school after that. 

When Eddie'd got hurt, their daddy had run out of his workshed in the back yard at the commotion, and he'd been the one to heal up Eddie's chin. Mama'd been shaking too hard to keep her wand straight enough. God, but Eddie'd been so proud of that scar after that. Says even now that it makes him look rakish, and he's not wrong. 

Now, here in Bonavista's emergency room, Jake smoothes back Eddie's hair from his forehead. Eddie blinks once, and Jake's heart catches, but Eddie just keeps staring ahead, his gaze focused on the beige curtain that separates their holding bay from the one beside them.

Christ, Jake's chest is so tight and tense. He's doing everything he can to calm himself, to keep from letting Eddie feel how scared he is. But there's a part of him that's still that four-year-old flying off the stoop, watching his brother flip backwards through the air, landing with a sharp crack of bone against cement.

He draws in an unsteady breath and presses his forehead against Eddie's. 

Martine stands next to Jake, her arms folded, glaring at mediwizards and patients alike as the ward ebbs and flows with traffic. It's surprisingly busy for a Thursday night, early Friday morning, Jake thinks, and he shields himself and Eddie as best he can from the human suffering that surrounds him, the slow tick of routine, and the quick surges of activity that hint at a crisis brewing somewhere further inside. There's been a domestic duel, a potions accident, and a round of illegal hexes just whilst they've been sat here, and there are countless other minor injuries and magical misfires, not to mention the six Aurors from Greenpoint who were brought in along with Eddie, a few of whom are in intensive magical intervention.

One of the ER mediwizards on duty has already checked Eddie's vital signs three times, and promised that he'd have a Healer with him soon. Honestly, Jake's just as happy the triage mediwitch when they'd first come in wasn't concerned enough about Eddie's condition to escalate him into a immediate intervention, but he's deeply worried about his brother nonetheless. And goddamn but he's tired--it's almost four in the morning according to the clock on the wall of the main area, and the adrenaline rush has long since worn off. The Auror who'd come with them, Cozza, is giving them some space, and Jake's grateful for his lenience. Tonight's been fucking nervewracking enough.

And really, Jake has no idea why he was up so late. He hadn't been able to sleep well, and he'd got up out of bed and was standing in the kitchen, the only light coming from the open fridge door in front of him, when he felt a pulse of magical energy roll over Brooklyn. Jake hadn't been close enough to get the main part of the charge, and if he'd been asleep or a bit further away from the epicentre, maybe he wouldn't have even been aware of those echoes of malicious intensity. When he'd clambered up the fire escape, making his way to the roof of the brownstone, and seen the green skull with a snake coming out of its mouth hovering in the sky, and over Greenpoint at that--well. Jake'd called Graves immediately, dressed, then Apparated straight to the detention facility without thinking about it. He was one of the first on the scene--frankly, if he'd been a little sooner, he might have gotten into trouble coming without backup against whoever had orchestrated the attack on the Auror holding facility. Dolohov, of course. It had to be. As it was, he called Martine from the halls of the warehouse, standing over Billy Ogden's bleeding, still-warm body, and she'd been there five minutes later, barking orders at the beat Aurors who'd just arrived, the youngest ones, the ones just out of school, wide-eyed and nervous. The older ones know the protocols. Shut everything down. Set up a perimeter. Wait for the Obliviators. They'd been the next to arrive, followed by Graves, who'd taken over point from Martine, but Jake'd already been downstairs by then, in the special holding cells, all of their locked doors blown open.

And when Jake'd discovered Eddie crumpled on the floor on his cell, his whole world had tilted, gone sideways in a way that had taken Jake's fucking breath away, made his heart clench and burn. He'd been so sure Eddie was dead, the way he was lying, and the grief that rolled over him nearly brought him to his knees. He'd called Eddie's name, his face already wet with tears, his voice breaking, and what would his daddy say when Jake finally made it to Oudepoort, just to tell him his favourite son was dead? Jake had knelt beside Eddie and the relief that flooded him when found Eddie in shock but alive was almost overwhelming. Eddie couldn't form words or even react to Jake's presence, but Jake could tell he was there. He was breathing. He was shaking, his hands cold and flexing with each shudder that went through his body. Jake had pulled off his jacket and draped it over Eddie. He couldn't cast a warming spell; it might interfere with evidence collecting. A quick field scan had established that Eddie had multiple contusions, a possibly fractured wrist from warding off a spell, and some spell damage, but he's fucking alive, and Jake isn't left alone in the world with only his snake in the grass father. Honestly, Jake thinks that at the end of the world, it will be his father and the cockroaches, that it's a near-given that the bastard will outlive them all. But Jake doesn't want Eddie to leave him alone to face their father's legacy. He couldn't bear it, despite their differences.

Jake's humming and smoothing his hand over Eddie's arm now, trying not to interfere in Eddie's already damaged nervous condition, but sending him soft, quiet images of the carnival near their old house in Thibodaux that would pull up every summer. Eddie loved the magical barrel game which tested his already brilliant hand-eye coordination and reflexes, and the trick-riding in the ring performance. Jake tried to remember the bright colours of the riders' vests, the swoop and fall of the flying horses and the seemingly endless intricate combinations the riders could steer them into whilst Jake gasped and gawked. Eddie'd bring Jake over to pet the horses afterwards, talking their way into the pens and lifting Jake up to pet their soft, dappled brown and white ears and feed them lumps of raw cane sugar.

Looking back on it, Jake knows now that the horses were just regular horses with fake wings and Levitating charms. He'd seen real flying horses years later in France, rare and beautiful with their iridescent wings and gleaming coats. The carny ones'd been scrawny and underfed, the riders similarly so in their dime store tat with their fake bravado. The manoeuvres only created the illusion of danger, all of them relatively harmless but nothing as breathlessly death-defying as Jake had imagined all those years ago. Still, Jake tries to project the magic of it at the time, the beauty and strangeness of the spectacle to a young boy caught in a landscape that was dingy, familiar, and rich only in hopelessness.

And, in its own way, filled with love. Especially the love of an older brother who knew Jake needed a bit of that magic, who knew that it'd be something he'd remember all his life, even when Eddie started to disappear, leaving Jake frightened and alone with his Mama, worried about her even as she swore to him she'd be all right. 

She hadn't been. She'd left him, scared and alone, and Eddie hadn't been there when she'd gone. It's the one thing Jake's never entirely forgiven his brother for.

"Mr Durant." There's a broad shouldered man in a pale green robe in front of him. And then Martine is at Jake's elbow, gently prodding him back to full consciousness of the here-and-now. "I'm Healer Williams." His russet brown face is gentle and kind beneath a mass of springy dark curls. "I'm here to look at your brother. With your permission, of course." He eyes Jake's duty boots and the badge affixed to his belt. "Are you an Auror?"

Jake puts on a staged smile, a spot of courteousness for a difficult situation. "I'm an Unspeakable, actually." He holds out a hand, and Williams shakes it, a bit bemused. "Auror Cozza over there is the Auror on record." Cozza gives a nod of acknowledgement when the Healer looks over. He's leaning placidly against the wall, legs spread for balance, watching the scene.

Jake steps back after Martine tugs at his elbow to give the Healer more room to work. Williams goes through Eddie's motor reflexes and basic neuromagical function. He flips quickly through the record in the parchment affixed to Eddie's bed, checking the vitals that the mediwizard had been gathering. 

"Your brother's sustained some serious shock," Williams says, and Jake nods, looking over at Martine. She rests her hand on his shoulder. Williams hangs Eddie's record back on the end of his stretcher. He looks tired. "I think we need to move him to the neuromagical unit and get a specialist to look at him."

Jake hesitates, as the Healer moves to give the orders to a mediwitch waiting in the hall. Jake spreads his hands out and tries to look apologetic as he calls the Healer back. "I'm sorry to interfere, as a layman. But can I encourage you to find someone who's well-versed in occult magical neurotrauma? Eddie's at a seven right now on the Libavius scale--" Williams looks a bit surprised that Jake would know neuromagical trauma classification. "And he was taken in from a scene with some unusually violent spell activity." 

"We've seen a few others from the same event." Williams admits. "With some spell trauma we don't usually encounter in Bonavista. Surprisingly, given how stupid some wizards can be." He squints at Jake for a moment. "What did you say you do?"

"Legilimency, primarily forensic," Jake volunteers. "But I was a Hit Wizard abroad before I trained at Tirésias."

Williams considers, then concedes. "How about this? I'll get him up into major spell damage right now. The Healer-in-Chief for Magical Trauma is about to do rounds for the morning, and she's probably the best we've got. And if your brother needs someone outside of Bonavista, she can make that call. It'll cut out some of the steps in between."

"Thank you," Jake tries to look appropriately grateful. Martine has told him that he usually looks like a grudging asshole when he's thanking someone, so Jake really tries to show Williams what his help means to him. Whatever's wrong with Eddie, it's going to take some pretty fancy spellwork to figure it out, Jake thinks, much less bring him out of this state. He refuses to think about what it could mean if Eddie remains unresponsive.

"No problem." Williams clasps Jake's shoulder. "We'll make sure he gets the best treatment we can." He looks over at Cozza. "I'm assuming you'll be wanting to stay with him."

Cozza nods. "We'll need a private room and a MACUSA guard on the door." He glances over at Jake. "Sorry, sir."

Jake shakes his head. It's standard procedure given Eddie's current status as a suspect. "Better all around," he says. "It'll keep him safe if those bastards come back, so make it a double guard? I'll get Graves to sign off on it."

"Yes, sir," Cozza says, and he follows Williams to a station at the center of the emergency room to make the arrangements. 

Eddie's unchanged when Jake looks back at him, still staring straight ahead. Jake moves closer, bending down to curl his fingers around Eddie's hand again. "It's going to be okay, possede," he says, certain his brother can hear him. "They're going to take really good care of you, yeah? I'll make sure of that. You're safe now." Eddie's fingers flinch and flex beneath Jake's, but he stays silent. 

Martine eyes Jake when he stands back up. "You know you need to sleep."

Weariness settles on Jake's shoulders like a weight, and he nods, the air momentarily crushed out of his lungs. He inhales, trying not to panic. "Maybe." He rubs his hands over his face. "I need to go back to Greenpoint first. See what's going on."

"It's nothing but magiforensics," Martine says. "At this hour, you know that. Them and tracking, and there's nothing you're going to be able to do, Jacob." Her voice is gentle; she's beside him, her arm slipping around his waist. "I'm going to take you home with me, and you're going to sleep on my sofa for an hour or two and then we'll talk about going into the office, maudit bâtard." She rests her head on his shoulder, her hand settling on the small of his back. "No arguing."

Jake doesn't think he can. Not right now.

Cozza comes back with an orderly in tow to move Eddie to major spell damage. "Sorry, sir," Cozza says again. "But the sooner we get him up there and settled, the better. I'll stay with him until the end of my shift, but we'll get a team up here before then. Okay?"

"Thanks, man." Jake just gives Cozza a faint smile. He reaches down and touches Eddie's cheek. "I'll be back later, Ed. I promise." A shudder goes through his brother's body, and Jake hesitates. 

"Jake," Martine says softly, and Jake steps back, letting Cozza and the orderly take his place. Martine takes his hand and leads him back towards the bank of public Floos in the entry hall. He doesn't want to leave Eddie, but Martine's right. The best thing he can do now is sleep, and not fret about what might have happened.

Or what still could, his mind whispers as he steps into the green flames of the Floo after tossing in the powder and speaking Martine's address. 

A chill goes through him as he swirls away.

***

Blaise is tired. They've been working for two hours with the tracking team, trying to untangle the magical signatures in the detention facility, which is a bloody harder job than it seemed like at first. They'd had to go through the major entry points inch by inch, collecting all trace residue, then feeding it into the MACUSA database and cross-referencing it with the evidence being collected at the same time by the magiforensicologists. Blaise leans back in his chair in the small command centre the trackers have co-opted just outside the warden's office.

They'd been lucky really, that there weren't many detainees that night. A few wizards meant for Oudepoort had their transfer accelerated and were now on their way to cells in the maximum security prison. Others had just been held for drunk and disorderlies, domestic disputes, casting magic on the streets of Queens. All that sort of stupid thing. The guards who'd been out of harm's way when the shite had gone down had moved that lot into the back cells, leaving most of the rest of the detention facility clear for the Aurors and Unspeakables who'd been called in out of their warm beds. 

He hasn't seen Jake yet. Espinoza had come in once with evidence from the holding cells and told them Jake had taken his brother to hospital. That worries Blaise. He's seen the look on Jake's face when his brother's been brought up the past two days. There's anger there and a hell of a lot of affection, and Blaise thinks Jake Durant would fight a goddamned Manticore for his brother if he needed to. 

"Take a look at this," Althea says, and she sends a piece of parchment flying over to Blaise. "It's the entry hall access point."

Blaise catches it in one hand and frowns down at it. "It's Dolohov's signature. We knew that."

"But not the fingerprints on file for him." Althea rolls her chair across the stone floor over to him. She leans over his arm, runs her finger down the columns of codes and Auror acronyms. "Look. Not a match. Unknown, in fact. Not enough data for the system to use."

She's right. Blaise studies the parchment, trying to see if they've missed something. They haven't. He sets the parchment down on his desk. "Let's keep this out," he says. "I want to run it past the guv before we hand it over to that lot." His gaze flicks over towards the trackers leaning across the warden's desk in the next room. 

Althea nods, and then she looks over at Draco, who's sitting on the sofa in the corner, file jackets stacked around him, one open on his lap. He's been staring at the same page for a quarter-hour now. Blaise knows because he's been watching him, keeping an eye on Draco like Potter'd asked. Not that he wouldn't have done it anyway. Draco's shaken up, that much is obvious. Blaise doesn't blame him. The idea of a Morsmordre hanging in the Brooklyn sky's enough to chill Blaise's blood, and he doesn't have any of the history with the fucking Death Eaters that Draco does. 

"Is he all right?" Althea asks under her breath, and there's a sympathy in her gaze that surprises Blaise. Maybe it shouldn't. Althea's not the wretched bitch they'd always thought her. Not entirely. 

Blaise studies Draco, the way he's sitting, body tight and tense and drawn up as if he's in pain. "I hope so," he says, then he raises his voice. "Draco."

It takes a moment, but Draco looks up at him blankly. "What?" His voice is barely a croak, and Blaise's instincts flare, his whole body on high alert. 

"What's going on?" Blaise asks, and he pushes himself out of his chair. Draco clenches in on himself, and Blaise doesn't like the way he's holding his forearm tight to his body, his fist clenched. The file jacket spills across the floor, parchments drifting nearly to Althea's booted feet. 

Blaise grabs Draco's wrist, and Draco hisses, cries out softly when Blaise turns his arm. There's blood spreading across his sleeve, bright crimson across the white cotton. "Fuck," Blaise says, his voice quiet enough that he doesn't alert the trackers, but Althea's up, moving across the office already. "What is this?" Blaise asks Draco, and he's unbuttoning Draco's cuff before Draco can object. 

Draco's arm is covered in blood, seeping slowly from the edges of what Blaise can see is the Mark, twisting ugly and dark across the swollen pink scar tissue, its edges jagged and contorted in the places where the ropes of scarring have pulled against Draco's skin. But still, it's there, and it's bleeding as it pushes its way up through the skin. Blaise looks up at Draco, horrified. 

"Merlin, Draco," he breathes out, and Draco's face is knotted in pain. "How long--"

"Since the Morsmordre," Draco manages to say. He's breathing a bit unevenly, and Blaise knows it must be agony. His face is pale, his pupils nearly blown with the pain of it. 

"How?" Blaise asks. He doesn't know what to do, doesn't know how to help Draco.

Draco just looks at him. "Dream. Woke me up with this." He huffs out a small laugh, then bites back a groan as a shudder of pain goes through him. "Wasn't this bad at first."

"Does Potter know?" Blaise doesn't understand the guv. How the fuck could he let Draco come here like this, be in this much pain?

"Not that it's like this." Draco swears, and his hand starts trembling, blood running down his wrist, across his palm. "Wasn't--" He breaks off, his face twisting to one side. " _Fuck._ "

"Christ, Malfoy," Althea says, and she's pushing Blaise out of the way, taking Draco's wrist in her hand. Draco hisses again, and he tries to pull away. She just catches his hand again and looks up at him. "Stop it. I've had field training. I'm not going to hurt you."

Blaise is surprised when Draco stills, his chest heaving a little. Draco nods, and Althea pulls her wand out, using a variation of Scourgify to clean away the blood, enough so that they can see the thin lines cracking the surface of Draco's skin. 

"It's trying to come out," Althea says. "The scar tissue's keeping it back." She looks up at Blaise. "Cut off a bit of your shirt. I'm going to need to transfigure a dressing for it."

Blaise doesn't hesitate. He pulls his shirt out of his jeans and uses a Diffindo to hack off two thick strips, handing them over to Althea. 

She transfigures them, one into a thick dressing, the other into a bandage, then uses a sterilising charm on them both, letting them levitate in the air above Draco's arm as she cleans away the blood again and casts another sterilising charm across his skin. 

Draco shudders beneath her hands, and he's nearly getting blood from his lip the way he's biting down on it. Blaise feels helpless, unable to stop his best friend from hurting like this, unable to find the bastard responsible and torture him into a goddamned bloody pulp. 

Althea's looking down at the scars on Draco's arm. "Why'd you do this?" she asks, a tinge of horror colouring her voice, and Draco lets out a raw, dry laugh. 

"You," he says after a moment, and the gaze he turns on Althea is filled with pain and pity and peevish pique. "All the things you and your friends said about it. About me." His arm shakes as the blood starts to seep through the skin again. Althea's watching him, her face shocked. "I couldn't take it," Draco says, and the pain's slurring his words just a tiny bit. "I went home one night, crawled into the bath with a bottle of firewhisky and my wand and carved myself up." 

"Jesus," Althea says, and her voice shakes. "Jesus, Malfoy. I'm--" She breaks off, looks away. "I'm sorry."

Draco watches her, and Blaise can see the emotions shifting across his face. Anger. Bitterness. Sadness. Grief. And then he closes his eyes, leans his head against the back of the sofa. "I didn't kill myself, so you can be glad of that, I suppose. I thought about it, but it seemed so…" He sighs. "Final."

Althea swallows. Blaise doesn't think she's ever really thought of what her words must have done to Draco. To all of them. She'd been angry and bitter herself, and it must have felt so much better to lash out, to let some of her own grief bleed out onto others, raw and hot and wild. Blaise feels almost sorry for her. 

Almost.

"I didn't know," Althea says after a moment. She sets the dressing against Draco's arm and Blaise sees him tense, sees the pain furrow Draco's brow, and Circe, sometimes he wonders if Draco knows how strong he is, how fucking brave. Draco thinks of himself as a coward, Blaise knows that. All because he didn't stand up to his father when he was a goddamned child. Blaise couldn't have gone through what Draco did and come out the other side anything other than a broken bastard. And here Draco is, sat in the middle of a bloody prison where the Morsmordre just rained down, the green sparks leaving dark craters on the asphalt of the pavement. 

Bloody hell, Blaise thinks. He's proud to be one of Sergeant Draco Malfoy's closest friends. He sits on the sofa beside Draco, letting his palm settle over Draco's right hand. Draco looks over at him. There's a bit of sweat on his upper lip, and he's holding himself stiffly as Althea wraps the bandage around his arm, securing it with a fastening charm. 

"That'll hold for a little while," Althea says, her voice quiet. She's not looking at Draco. Blaise wonders if she can right now. 

Draco hesitates, then says, "Thanks." He sits up and grimaces. "Circe, what I wouldn't do for a good pain potion." 

"Numbing charm," Althea says. "Wears off fast, but it'll help." She holds her wand above Draco's forearm. "Want one?"

He nods, and she casts the charm. Blaise feels the moment it hits; Draco's body relaxes, softens. Draco draws in a slow breath, letting his eyes close, then open again on the exhale. 

"Better?" Althea asks. There's a worried look on her face. Draco just gives her a faint smile and rolls his sleeve down again, buttoning the cuff before he casts a Scourgify of his own on the blood-stained cotton. It doesn't take it out entirely, but it's not as noticeable. 

And just in time, too. 

There's the sharp click of heels just outside the door, and Hermione bloody Granger comes in, followed by the guv. She looks around, taking in the spilled file jacket and Blaise and Althea near Draco. Her eyes narrow. 

"Everything all right?" she asks, and Blaise stands up, putting himself between them and Draco. He doesn't even want the guv to see him. Not yet. Not until Draco can steady himself. 

"Brilliant," Althea says from behind him, and Blaise feels her walk up, another body blocking Draco. He knows the guv understands, sees the widening of Potter's eyes when he looks towards the sofa. 

"Malfoy," Potter says, but Draco's already standing up. 

"I'm fine." Draco sets a hand on Blaise's shoulder. He's still pale, still sweaty, still trembly. Obviously not bloody fine at all, and every one of them knows it, but Draco lifts his chin, defying them to point it out. He looks over at Granger. "I thought Potter must have rung you," he says, and she gives him a small, faint smile before looking over at the room the trackers have taken over. 

"Your Mark," Granger says, and Draco's gaze goes to Potter. Potter doesn't look away; they stand there for a moment, silent, almost as if they're having a conversation none of the rest of them can hear. 

And then Draco looks back over at Granger. "It went off around the same time as the Morsmordre. I was sleeping. It woke me up."

Granger's just watching him. She nods, then sighs. "Graves wants you to go into a crash Legilimency course," she says, and Blaise looks over at Draco in surprise. 

Draco's brow furrows. "Whatever for?"

"You're a skilled Occlumens." Granger lowers her voice. "It's not in your file, but we know it--"

"Durant," Draco says, his mouth twisting, and he looks at Potter. "That bastard told them."

Potter looks uncomfortable; he shoves his hands in his pockets and just glances back at Granger. "Tell him, Hermione." He sounds unhappy. Angry even.

Granger folds her brown arms over her blue-green floral dress. "We've known for a time, Malfoy. The Unspeakables, at least. The reaction you have to Veritaserum? It's a known issue with individuals who have an aptitude for neuromancy. It didn't take the Department of Mysteries much digging during your post-war hearing to figure out that you must have been trained in Occlumency. Given your relationships with Severus Snape and Bellatrix Lestrange." She grudgingly adds, "Who were probably the best in England at the time in that form of neuromancy."

"Except for Voldemort," Potter mutters, and Granger gives him a sharp look. The guv's shoulders stiffen, and Blaise thinks there's something going on there that he wants to stay far out of, thanks muchly.

Draco doesn't say anything for a long moment, then his shoulders slump a little. "What does my being an Occlumens have to do with Legilimency?"

"They're usually interrelated skills," Granger says. "And Graves thinks you can be at least brought to basic levels easily. Saul Croaker agrees, as do I. So you'll be undergoing intensive training over the next day or two. We're going to need skills like yours in this case. Particularly with Jake's brother being involved."

"So Graves wants me to go after Eddie Durant," Draco says, his voice quiet. He's watching Granger, a distrustful look on his face. He glances towards Potter, then back at Granger. "Because his brother can't."

Granger nods. "And Saul wants you to have basic Unspeakable training." She's not looking at Potter; the guv's radiating pure fury now, and a scrap of paper on Althea's desk starts to smoke a little. 

"Guv," Blaise says, his voice careful, and Potter glances at him. Blaise nods towards the desk, and Potter sighs, snapping his fingers at the small flame licking up the side of the file jacket now. It sputters out. 

That's interesting, Blaise thinks. Almost more than what Granger's suggesting, because it's bloody obvious Potter doesn't agree with her. 

Draco's just studying Granger. He looks fragile and frail, dirty hair falling across his cheek, his left hand still crooked and clawed from the pain Blaise knows he must be gritting his teeth through. "I won't do it without approval from my SIO. Either the Legilimency or the Unspeakable training." He lifts his chin, and his mouth's set tight. Blaise knows that look, knows that Draco's digging in his heels partially because he can tell how tense Potter is, partially because not one of them trusts Graves or Saul Croaker further than they can throw either of the conniving bastards. Even Althea looks sceptical, standing behind Draco, her arms crossed over her chest in an exact mimicry of Granger's stubborn stance. 

Granger sighs. "As I told Harry earlier, neither of you have a choice." She digs into her satchel, pulls out a folded parchment sealed shut with an official Ministry wax seal, thick and gold and heavy. 

Draco takes it from her. "What's this?" He breaks the seal, unfolding it. A spark of magic floats up from the parchment, shimmering in the air around him as the parchment recognises his touch.

"Orders signed by Gawain, Kingsley and Proudfoot," Granger says, almost apologetically. "Indicating that your current assignment with Her Majesty's Magical Government is being amended to put you under the purview of the Department of Mysteries." She bites her lip. "Harry's not your SIO for the foreseeable future. I am."

The silence in the room is stunned. Draco gapes at Granger, and Blaise suddenly understands why Potter's so fucking angry. His best mate's just poached Draco so the Americans can use him, for what Merlin only knows.

Granger looks resolute. Blaise wonders how long she and the guv had fought. There's a good arm's length of distance between them, and Potter's stone-faced. Cold. "You'll retain your active status as a sergeant within the Auror force," Granger says. "And I have no problems embedding you still within Seven-Four-Alpha, Malfoy, but you'll ultimately report to me until this assignment is over."

Potter's gaze is fixed on Draco's face, and there's something there that Blaise doesn't quite know how to interpret. He can't tell if Potter's angry at Granger or at Draco too, which is ridiculous. The guv's fucking mad for Draco, Blaise thinks, and none of this is Draco's bloody fault as far as he knows.

"So I don't have a choice," Draco says, and there's a deep bitterness imbuing the words. He shifts on his feet, his right hand going to his forearm where the Mark's bandaged up. "Story of my life, I suppose."

And that's when Potter says, in a low voice that cracks halfway through, "I'm sorry, Malfoy. I really am. I fought this one--"

"It's fine." Draco's face says it's anything but. He laughs, harsh and loud in the quiet of the room. Then he looks over at Potter. "Well, at least I can shag you openly, guv, without worrying about Professional Standards." The twist of his mouth is scathing. Contemptuous. Oh so very wounded Draco. Blaise recognises it all too well.

Granger's eyes narrow, and she glances at Potter, who's just watching Malfoy, his hands still in his pockets. Blaise wants to laugh himself, at the sheer absurdity of it all, at Draco's blunt admission and Granger's apparent lack of surprise, at the way Blaise and Althea both draw closer to flank Draco, to make certain that Granger knows that whatever the fuck she says, whatever the Ministry thinks it's doing, Draco is still theirs. 

And always will be. 

"I got them to hold off on further decisions until we're back in England," Potter says, and he's only focussed on Draco. Blaise thinks the rest of them could walk out of the room and neither one of them would notice. "They're not willing to budge." Potter gives Draco a faint smile. "Evidently you're indispensable for this mission, Malfoy."

As Blaise watches, Potter's face softens, his voice gentles, and he steps closer to Draco, tucks Draco's hair back behind his ear. It's the first time Blaise has ever seen the guv touch Draco like this, his knuckles just barely skimming Draco's cheek as he lowers his hand. And the way Draco's looking at Potter. Circe. Blaise has to turn away, a curious rush of jealousy going through him. He'd do anything to have someone look at him that way. 

Granger breaks the moment. "It's not as if we're not in a moment of national crisis," she says, and Blaise can tell she's embarrassed by the sharpness of her voice, the way her mouth purses and her eyes flick to the side. He's seen that same expression on his mother's face when she's confronted with something she doesn't entirely know how to handle. 

"International, even," Granger adds, and by God, if she's not completely flustered, Blaise thinks. Even Althea's less surprised, but then again, she's spent the past few days being exposed to Draco and the guv, so Blaise suspects her inoculation to them's higher. 

Draco turns to Granger. "When does this start?" 

"Today." Granger rubs her shoulder, fiddles with the strap of her satchel. "You'll want to get a bit of sleep, then come into MACUSA. Graves wants you training with Jake--"

"Durant? Draco's voice rises. "Surely there's someone else--"

Fuck, but Blaise agrees. "That's a goddamned stupid idea," he says to Granger, and the guv gives him a quick, grateful smile. Blaise just scowls back at him and Potter looks away. Blaise isn't agreeing with the two of them for their sake. _Merlin_. He just thinks it's shit to force Jake to train his fucking replacement.

And for Draco to have to endure that. Honestly, Blaise despairs at the idiocy of Gryffindors at times. Does Granger really think it'd be a brilliant idea to have Jake and Draco facing off in the same training room? With Legilimency in play? Fuck, Blaise doesn't even want to be in the building if that's going to happen.

"What part of being short-staffed do you not understand, Malfoy?" Granger frowns at him. "Besides, Graves wants Jake to train you, and what the MACUSA Director of Magical Security wants, he gets, so there's nothing I can bloody well do about it, even if I thought there'd be someone more appropriate."

Draco has that mulish expression on his face, but Potter touches his arm, and says something softly, beneath his breath, so low that Blaise can't even catch it, and the fight goes out of Draco. 

"Fine," Draco says. "But I'm not coming in right away--"

"Jake'll be waiting for you at ten in his office." Graves himself steps into the room, and Blaise wonders how long he's been listening. Watching. Even Potter looks taken aback, but Graves acts as if nothing's wrong in the room. "Apologies to Unspeakable Granger for stepping in. I was just coming to tell you all to go home. The MACUSA staff can wrap this up. Get some sleep, then I'll expect you back in your incident room as soon as possible. Hermione, Harry, I'll want to speak to you before your London meeting, whenever that might be."

Granger nods as Graves turns to leave; the guv does too, but it takes him a moment. He looks as if he wants to argue, to fight Graves, and it's only the modicum of good sense he has holding him back. 

"Oh, Harry," Graves says, looking back from the door. "Constable Parkinson has asked to remain with the magiforensics team tonight. I've approved that from my end, if it's fine with you."

"Whatever she needs," Potter says, and Graves gives him a long, considering look before nodding and stepping back into the hall. 

They all look at each other, then Potter sighs. "Fuck it," he says. "I'm going back to the hotel." He glances at Draco. "Coming with me?" He holds out his hand and Draco takes it, not bothering to give Granger a second glance. 

Blaise feels discomfited as he follows them, Althea at his heels. He doesn't like how things are shifting around them, how they're changing as a team, how other people are placing their own expectations on them, and how their mission target is moving.

And he bloody well doesn't trust Graves. 

Not one goddamned bit.

***

The buzz of Harry's mobile against the nightstand wakes him.

Malfoy's hair is tickling Harry's nose; they're both half-dressed, stretched out beneath the white duvet, the curtains to the windows drawn against the morning sun gleaming off the glass-encased buildings. Malfoy murmurs something as Harry shifts, reaching for his mobile and nearly knocking his glasses to the floor in the process. Malfoy rolls on his side, his back to Harry, a long, pale curve of knobby spine and sharp shoulder blades. 

Harry squints at the text from Ron, trying to make out what it's saying.

 _get up ahole. brkfast rmbr? need 2 talk, u fucker._

He drops the mobile onto the bed beside him, and peers at the clock. It's just gone eight, and Harry's eyes are prickly and dry; his mouth tastes like bollocks and not pleasantly. It'd been nearly half-four before they'd made it back to the hotel, and another twenty minutes at least before he and Malfoy'd fallen into bed, wrapped around each other. 

Not that part of that time didn't involve a brief argument when Malfoy'd taken off his shirt and Harry'd seen his tightly bandaged forearm. It'd frightened Harry again, and Harry'd demanded to know what had happened. Malfoy'd been cagey, only saying that it'd hurt and Whitaker'd dressed it for him. Harry'd wanted to look at it, and Malfoy'd pushed him away, saying it was fine and that he just wanted to fucking sleep.

Harry'd known from the set of Malfoy's jaw that this wasn't the time to push, so he'd just held up his hands and walked away, going into the loo for a quick slash and to splash water on his tired face. When he'd come back, Malfoy was already in bed, the duvet pulled up over his shoulder. When Harry'd slid into his side of the bed, Malfoy'd been quiet at first, then he'd shifted just enough so that his arse was against Harry's hip and he'd reached back for Harry's arm, pulling it over his side. Harry'd let Malfoy tug him closer, had wrapped himself around Malfoy, his face pressed against Malfoy's hair, still lank and musky with sweat from their fucking only a handful of hours previous. 

_It hurt,_ Malfoy had said after a moment. _That's all._

And Harry'd just nodded into the curve of Malfoy's neck and had pretended he didn't know Malfoy wasn't telling him everything because Malfoy had just sighed and relaxed against Harry, his fingers threading through Harry's. Harry'd murmured a calming spell into Malfoy's ear, and Malfoy'd closed his eyes and breathed out again, and it'd only taken a few minutes before Harry realised Malfoy was sleeping. 

It'd taken Harry a hell of a lot longer to fall asleep. 

And now here he is, awake again, and he lets his fingers drift lightly along Malfoy's soft skin, tracing the arch of his spine down to the wide elastic waistband of his tight white y-fronts.

The mobile buzzes again, and Harry reaches for it. _nt joking, H. dwnstairs. there's shit bacn._

Harry shakes his head. Jesus. He knows Ron's going to ream him for being angry with Hermione. Harry doesn't give a fuck. She has to have known the plans for Malfoy, and he's not best pleased with Ron either. Harry's pretty sure Ron had an idea of what was coming, based on the way he'd acted earlier. And Harry's seen the order now; Malfoy'd handed it over when they'd left Greenpoint. It'd been signed yesterday, so as much as Hermione wants to pretend the Morsmordre has something to do with this, Harry fucking well knows better. 

Malfoy snores lightly, and Harry can't help but smile. It's odd how intimate this feels now, with Malfoy's clothes and toiletries in Harry's room, the two of them spending the whole night together. Well. Most of the night. But even after all the Greenpoint mess, there hadn't been a question that Malfoy would follow Harry back to his room, even just to sleep. 

Another buzz from the mobile. _ornge juice is better thn pmpkin yes?_

Jesus. Harry sits up carefully, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed and sliding off so Malfoy won't wake up. It doesn't work. Malfoy stretches, looks back over his shoulder sleepily. 

"What?" Malfoy mumbles through a yawn. 

Harry reaches for his clothes, the same ones he'd thrown on to go to Greenpoint, a pair of jeans and a blue cotton button-down. "Go back to sleep. Ron wants breakfast."

"Fuck him," Malfoy says into his pillow, wrapping his arms around it. He'd been less than impressed when he'd learnt Ron had shown up alongside Hermione. _What the fuck for?_ he'd asked Harry, and hell if Harry knew, really. "Wake me up when you come back." 

"I will." Harry pulls on his clothes, then leans over and kisses Malfoy's mouth, quick and hard. "Toast?"

Malfoy nips at Harry's lip. "With jam." He doesn't bother with a _please._ God, but Harry loves that about him. Malfoy settles back into his nest of duvet and sheets and pillows, eyes closing again. 

Harry slides into trainers, then out the door, his room key in his pocket along with his mobile. 

Ron's waiting in the restaurant downstairs, a plate full of eggs and toast and American bacon in front of him. He's eyeing the latter dubiously when Harry sits down, a cup of coffee in one hand and a puffy bagel spread with awful cream cheese in the other. Really, Harry wishes he could pop over to Leo's and pick up a better one.

"This is not bacon," Ron says, holding up a thin, crispy slice. "I don't give a fuck what their little sign on the buffet says." It crumbles in his hand, falling to his plate. "See?"

Harry takes a sip of coffee. "So how the hell did you actually get Kingsley to agree to let you come over here?"

Ron doesn't answer for a moment, then he shrugs and says, "Told him I'd pull the Wheezes' funding for the primary school wizarding education initiatives he's been banging on about for six months." He picks up one of the shards of bacon and pops it in his mouth, chewing for a moment. "Not that I actually would. George would flatten me, but Kingsley doesn't know that, does he?"

"You're horrible." Harry smiles into his coffee cup. Even annoyed as he is with Ron and Hermione both, he's still missed them.

"But really," Ron says, and he looks up at Harry, a frown creasing his freckled face. "Did you think I wouldn't? Fuck, Harry. If Kingsley had told me no, I'd still have come over. That was a fucking Morsmordre--" He breaks off, his mouth tightening. He takes a bite of egg, chewing slowly before he swallows and sighs. "Hermione says Malfoy's Mark flared."

"That's one way of putting it." Harry thinks of Malfoy lying upstairs in bed, his arm wrapped in a white bandage, thinks of how Malfoy had collapsed onto the floor last night, how Malfoy'd screamed and writhed against Harry, tears seeping out of the corners of his eyes and Harry'd been unable to do anything other than hold him tight until the spasms faded. Jesus, Harry still feels ill at the memory of how limp Malfoy's body had gone at the end and how Harry'd had a moment--brief and fleeting and goddamned terrifying--where he'd thought Malfoy might be dead until Malfoy had drawn in a noisy, rattling gasp.

Harry looks down at his bagel. He's not very hungry now.

Ron's just watching him. "You know Hermione's just doing her job," he says after a moment. He butters a triangle of toast, smears marmalade across it. "You were a bit of a git to her this morning."

"And Hermione's always been a bossy cow who thinks she knows what's best for everyone," Harry snaps back. "You know that."

"Yeah," Ron says, biting into his toast. "But she's right sometimes." He licks a bit of marmalade from his thumb. "Most of the time, really, at least when it comes to me, and you know I hate that. But this isn't her call, pulling Malfoy under the Unspeakables. She actually told Croaker she thought it was a bad idea, not that she'd admit it to you or Malfoy. You know Hermione. United front and all that."

Harry takes another sip of coffee. It's strong and milky and hot, and it's settling his jangled, exhausted nerves. "I don't like any of it." He knows he sounds petulant, but he doesn't care. He's tired, and he's worried. He rubs at the bridge of his nose, pushing his glasses up. "Christ, Ron, I don't feel like I even know what I'm doing over here any more. We were just supposed to come over, get Dolohov, help fucking Graves out a bit. Not wind up with…" He waves his hand helplessly. "This." He's oddly glad Ron's here. Harry needs the bluntness of a Weasley to ground him right now. 

Ron leans his elbows on the table. Hermione'd fuss at him for that if she were eating with them. Harry wonders what she's doing. He's not surprised they're staying in the Millenium; it's one of the handful of New York hotels the Ministry's approved for travel, and Hermione had known his team was here. He supposes she didn't need to get any extra sleep; when he'd rung her in the middle of the night, it'd been half-six in London and she'd been half-dressed, a bowl of porridge in one hand. He's impressed that she'd made it over as quickly as she had.

"Mate," Ron says, "I don't think any of you lot know what the fuck you're doing any more. I mean, fuck, Harry. We're talking Voldemort-level shit here." He looks discomfited. Harry thinks about telling Ron about his scar, the way it'd woken him up screaming a week and a half ago, nearly the same as Malfoy last night. He doesn't. It's stupid of him perhaps, but he can't lay that on Ron. Not yet. 

Harry pulls his bagel apart, pokes a finger at the cream cheese before taking a bite. It's dry, and he doesn't like the plainness of it. He prefers the ones that have everything thrown onto them, salty and sharp and just a little bit sour. The restaurant's starting to get busier as people make their way downstairs, but he feels tucked away in this small corner table with Ron, who's watching him over the rim of his mug filled with milky tea. Harry can't drink tea in the States. The water's not right; it always tastes a bit off to him. 

"I feel useless," Harry says after a moment. 

"That's stupid of you." Ron watches him. "What? You thought you'd somehow know Dolohov was going to set off a Morsmordre in New York? Come on, Harry. Not even you're that thick."

Harry quirks his mouth at Ron. "Thanks?"

Ron just shrugs. "Look, stop taking the weight of the fucking world on you, mate. You don't have to do anything other than your damn job, which you're doing, yeah?" He frowns at Harry. "Even if you're being a soggy tit and making my wife's life hard."

"It's not like she's not doing the same for mine." Harry looks up at him. "I have a team and she just came in and undermined--"

"Oh, frog bollocks," Ron says, and Harry blinks at him. Ron snorts. "Sorry. Picked that up from Victoire. Fleur's ripshit that Bill taught her to say it."

Harry shakes his head. "Christ, that kid."

"She's going to be a terror some day," Ron says cheerfully. "But back to you and Hermione. Goddamn, Harry. It's fucking Graves that pushed for Malfoy's training. Not her. She thinks he's good on your team. And Croaker's throwing his fucking weight around because of that, and Hermione's getting caught in the middle with you sulking for England at her." He picks up another triangle of toast and slathers it with butter and the remnants of the marmalade packet. "So pull your shit together. She fought to have Malfoy kept with Seven-Four-Alpha in any way she could. And frankly, I'd think you'd be thrilled that you don't have to worry about shagging someone who works for you. At least for now."

There's that silver lining, Harry thinks. But he's still out of sorts over the whole matter, so he just shrugs. "I suppose." He leans back in his chair. "I'm just bloody tired. Not enough sleep last night." He rubs at his face. "I left Malfoy upstairs passed out," he says without thinking, and that makes Ron's eyebrow go up.

"In your room?" 

Harry feels his face heat up a bit. "Well, ours, I reckon. His stuff's in there now."

Ron just looks at him. "You gave up his room?"

"No." Harry's skin feels too tight, too stretched. Fuck but he wishes he'd been able to get another hour of kipping next to Malfoy. "We're not stupid. He's just staying in mine." 

"Right." Ron frowns at him, a curious twist to his mouth. He doesn't say anything else for a moment, then he leans forward again, jabbing at the air to his left with his fork. "So, if I told you that bloke over there, the one with the fit shoulders and the beard's been looking over at you for the past five minutes, would you be interested?"

"Why?"

Ron gives him an exasperated look. "Just answer the damn question."

Harry glances towards the direction Ron's pointing towards. The man's attractive enough, Harry supposes. Strong and broad shouldered with a chiseled jaw, and when Harry catches his eye, the man smiles at him. Harry looks away. He'd rather have Malfoy's lanky body and coltish legs wrapped around him, to be honest. He runs his thumb down the side of his still-warm coffee cup. "Not really," he admits to Ron. "Besides, Malfoy and I aren't doing that sort of thing." At Ron's raised eyebrow, Harry clarifies. "I mean, other people. We're not doing other people." Harry flinches at how crass that sounds.

"You're exclusive now." Ron looks gobsmacked. "You and _Malfoy._ " 

"I guess." Harry doesn't want to tell Ron he'd kissed Jake, and Malfoy had imploded in jealousy last night. God, but Harry'd liked that. Liked Malfoy being so fucking possessive. Liked Malfoy dominating him, telling him what to do, getting Harry off with the understanding that Harry was only going to do this with him for now. It's been ages since Harry's had that sort of arrangement. Actually, it's been since Ginny, and even then Harry'd had a wandering eye, whether or not he'd acted on it. Right now, he can't think of anyone but Malfoy, doesn't want another person, however attractive. 

"Jesus, Harry." Ron drops his fork onto his plate; it clanks loudly and they both flinch. "You're dating Malfoy."

"No." Harry shakes his head. "No. We're shagging."

Ron gives him a look, sharp and shrewd. "Exclusively." 

"That's not the same thing," Harry protests. "It's Malfoy--"

"And you're _dating_ him." Ron sits back in his chair, his eyes wide. "He's your _boyfriend._ " He runs his hands over his face, pushing his ginger hair back out of his eyes. " _Malfoy._ "

Harry's face feels hot and prickly. "But we're not." He worries his lip between his teeth, suddenly unsettled. "It's not like that."

Ron snorts. He leans forward again, holding up a finger. "Harry. One. You're sharing a hotel room with him, yes?" Harry nods. Ron adds another finger. "Two. You've told him you're not going to shag or go out with another person, male or female." 

"It wasn't that specific," Harry mutters, and Ron frowns at him. "Fine. Yes. I told him that."

"Three." Ron's ring finger pops up. "You just looked at a fucking fit bloke who seems interested in you and didn't give a damn." His eyebrows go up. "Which I have never, even when you were dating Gin, seen you do."

Harry picks up his coffee cup. "He wasn't all that."

"And let's not forget, four." Ron's little finger slips into the mix. "You're so worried about him that there's part of you that wants to leave me sat here on my own whilst you go back upstairs to him, yeah?" He grins. "So when should I start looking for the wedding present?"

Goddamn, but Harry hates how Ron can see right through him. "Shut up, you fucker." His heart's thudding against his chest, and he has to look away to catch his breath. He glances over at the other man, the one with the beard. Nothing. Not a spark of attraction. 

Fuck, Harry thinks. "I'm not dating Malfoy." He's _not._ Is he?

"Oh, but you _are_ dating the Ferret, mate." Ron shakes his head. "Pretty bloody obvious, although you're so sodding oblivious sometimes, it doesn't surprise me you haven't figured it out yet. I don't know who's going to be more horrified, Mum or Dad. Maybe Gin, although I'm pretty sure she'll think it's hysterical." He falls silent for a moment, studying Harry's face. "You're upset."

Harry shakes his head, but he feels as if his whole world's flipped upside down. "I'm tired," he says. "I'm just bloody tired." His heart aches; his mind's spinning. Frankly he's not entirely certain he's not going to just sick up the way his stomach keeps flopping every time he thinks about Malfoy, about what Ron's saying. 

Ron looks down at the remnants of his breakfast. He exhales. "This isn't like when you started dating Jake, is it?"

No, Harry wants to say. It's nothing like it. But he just sits there, his throat thick and tight. He and Jake had shagged about, together and separately, figuring out the rules about who they could fuck and when and how and where. They'd been off and on for two years, mostly on, but it'd always been easy, up until it hadn't been. And he'd known Jake had the occasional one night stand, same as he did, and it wasn't anything to be worried about. Fuck, half the time they'd come back and told each other what they did whilst wanking the other hard. But now Harry knows if any bastard touches Malfoy, Harry'll fucking kill him with his goddamned bare hands, and that realisation takes his breath away. 

His hand trembles as he picks his coffee cup up. Ron's just watching him. 

"I'm sorry," Ron says after a moment, and when Harry looks up at him, curious, Ron shrugs and gives him a small, faint smile. "Falling for someone hurts like hell sometimes," he says quietly. "Especially someone as prickly as the Ferret. Does he know?"

Harry doesn't want to answer, but he finds himself saying, "No."

Ron sighs. "Harry. Mate."

"Don't," Harry says. "I know you fell in love with your teenage girlfriend, but the rest of us…" He swallows past the ache in his throat. 

"He might as well have been your teenage girlfriend," Ron mutters. He crumbles a leftover piece of bacon, not looking at Harry.

"Fuck off." Harry scowls. "It's different with me and Malfoy."

"It doesn't have to be." Ron laughs, a soft, quiet huff. "Listen to me. I ought to be trying to convince you to get over his sorry arse." An expression of regret crosses his face. "Two weeks ago you were nothing but a good shag the two of you, remember? That's what you told me, at least."

Harry remembers. They'd been sitting out in the back garden of the Burrow on Midsummer Eve. He'd shagged Malfoy in that field in the Cotswolds earlier that day, their combined magic swirling and prickling around them in the hot sunshine as it only can at Midsummer, and Harry thinks maybe that was the moment he fell for Malfoy, lying there spread beneath Harry, wildflowers caught in his hair, looking like the very incarnation of a Celtic nature spirit. Harry'd kept one of those flowers, tucked it away in his nightstand. It's still there, dried out but still smelling of that moment. The sun and the earth and the musky, sweaty sex. 

But it's never just been sex for them, has it? As much as Harry's wanted to push it into just that. He and Malfoy have always been more. Even in their school days, even when they hated each other. Harry'd been obsessed with Malfoy, loathed him, despised him. 

How different was that from love anyway?

"What time is it?" Harry asks, his mind looking to skitter away from that thought. 

Ron glances down at the thick gold watch on his freckled wrist. "Almost half-eight, why?"

Harry swears and puts his coffee cup down. Freddie. Goddamn it, he'd nearly forgotten, what with all the tumult they've just gone through. "I've got to be in Paris in half an hour."

"Paris." Ron gives him a confused look. "What are you on about?"

And Harry doesn't want to say; it makes it much more real if he does, and what he has with Freddie feels so private. Even more so than his relationship with Malfoy. Still, Ron's his best mate, and if Harry can't tell him… He sighs. "I'm still seeing that Mind Healer," he says, looking away. “The one Jake helped me find."

"Oh," Ron says, but he gives Harry a warm smile. "That's good, yeah?"

Harry supposes it is. "I can't go," he says, and there's a pang of something deep inside of him. Regret, maybe? A bit of disappointment? "Hermione's right; we're in the middle of a crisis."

But Ron's already shaking his head. "Fuck that. It's what, an hour?" At Harry's nod, Ron leans back. "Then go, Harry. Of all days…"

Part of Harry just wants to go back upstairs and curl beside Malfoy. "Graves will have kittens."

"Then let him." Ron's scowling at Harry. "He's a fucker anyway. Go."

It's a stupid idea, Harry thinks, but he wants to. He needs to see Freddie's calm face, maybe talk to her a bit more about what's going on. "Tell Hermione?" he asks, and Ron nods.

On his way out, Harry stops at the buffet table for a bit of toast and some jam to take back up to Malfoy. He knows better than to show up empty-handed. Especially after he'd promised. Christ, but he loves that snarky temper of Malfoy's. It's mad of him, Harry supposes, but he doesn't really give a fuck.

Harry's back in the lift before he realises his heart feels a bit lighter. 

Not much, but it's enough for now.

***

"You can't keep fretting about me," Mitchell Whitaker says over the rumble of traffic.

Althea's sat on a bench in the burial ground at St Paul's Chapel, just across the street from the hotel. The trees above her are green and shady, casting deep shadows across the worn and crooked headstones. She leans forward, her elbows on her knees, her mobile pressed to her ear. 

"Well, given you're the only dad I have," Althea says, "I reckon you're stuck with me doing exactly that, yeah?"

Her father laughs, soft and warm. "I love you, little girl."

"Me too." Althea holds back a yawn. She's tired, but when she'd gone back up to her room to sleep for a bit, she hadn't managed more than a couple of hours before waking up to dreams of her mother. It'd been enough to make her pull on jeans and a tank top, not even bothering with a bra, and head outside to ring her dad. She'd just needed to hear his voice, to remind herself that she hasn't lost him. Not yet, at least. 

The line's silent for a moment, then her dad says, "Something's bothering you, I can tell."

Althea wants to laugh. Where could she even start? She's no intention of telling him about the Morsmordre. It was hard enough for her to think about, remembering that same mark hovering over her house nine years ago, stark green and glittering against the velvet black sky. She wraps a strand of hair from her ponytail around her finger, and sighs. 

"Thea," Mitchell says. There's a warning in his tone; those journo instincts of his have caught a whiff of something. 

"It's nothing." Althea lets her hair slide off her finger. There's a faint breeze rustling through the leaves above her; a pigeon flutters down to land at her feet, fat and round and grey, its breast gleaming in iridescent purple and teal. It looks up at her, cocking its head, waiting for her to drop food.

Her father just waits, and Althea sighs again. Fine. He wants to know what's wrong? She'll tell him part of it at least. 

"I made someone hurt himself," she says finally. "I was a bitch, and I said some things, and I found out he hurt himself over it."

The whole thing's more complicated than that, but she's tired, and she doesn't know how to say it. Not to her dad. Not without bringing up bad memories for him of the Mark and the way it'd been so prominent on Yaxley and Dolohov's arms the night they'd killed her mum. 

Mitchell's quiet for a moment, and then he says, "Did you mean for him to hurt himself?"

"No." Althea hesitates. "Maybe. But not like that. I just…." She trails off. "God, Dad, I'm a fucking horror sometimes."

"You're strong-willed," her father says. "Always have been. Stubborn as hell when you were a toddler, and you ought to have seen the fits you threw. Clio and I didn't know what to do half the time." Her father's voice softens. Althea chews on her bottom lip. Her dad doesn't talk about her mum that much. Not like this at least. "Clio said you'd grow out of it though, and you did. Mostly."

Althea exhales. "I fucked this up."

"Then admit to it," Mitchell says. "You're not a shrinking violet, love. If you need to apologise to this bloke, then do it."

"And if he tells me to fuck off?" Althea reckons that's what Malfoy'll do. Christ, she would if she were him. She shudders, thinking of how mangled his arm is. She'd heard he'd done something, but seeing it, knowing she caused that...God. 

Her father's quiet, then he says, "You can't make someone forgive you, girl. You just have to hope they have it in them, and if they don't, well. That's their choice, yeah? And maybe they have a reason for saying no. At least you've made the change in yourself. If you mean it at least."

"Yeah," Althea says. She bites her thumbnail, watching as a group of sweaty tourists files into the brown stone chapel in front of her. A yellow taxi rolls by the iron fence, a splash of bright colour against the greys and browns of the street. Even beneath the shade of the trees the sun's beating down, hot against her bare shoulders, and Althea wishes she'd cast her sun charms before coming outside. 

"Get on with you then," Mitchell says. "Go take care of what you need to do. They'll be calling me any moment to do one of those fucking group sessions anyway." She can hear the disgust in her dad's voice. "Fucking Cathy Miller'll drive me round the twist."

Just shag her, Althea wants to say, but that seems a bit too much. "Don't have another row," she says instead, and her father just snorts. 

Althea pockets her mobile after she says goodbye, and she steps out of the peaceful shade of the churchyard only to see the guv walking down the street from the hotel, towards MACUSA, she assumes. She holds back, not wanting him to see her really. Not for any particular reason. She's just feeling a bit raw and exposed at the moment, and the guv unsettles her a little. She's not used to working with Harry Potter yet. She can't believe it's already been a fortnight that she's been on his team, and here she is standing in the middle of New York, having dealt with the fallout of a Morsmordre last night. 

Fuck if that wasn't more interesting than the bloody potions bust Wrightson had them on. And then she starts to remember working with Wrightson, but she stops. She can't go there right now. Later, maybe, when she has some time to fall apart.

She's in the lift when she realises if Potter's gone that means Malfoy's alone. The doors open onto her floor, but Althea hesitates on getting out. Instead, before she can stop herself, she hits the button for the forty-ninth floor, and the lift dings shut, zipping up another seventeen floors

It's only when she's knocking on the guv's door that she asks herself what the fuck she thinks she's doing, why she's looking to talk to Malfoy here, of all places.

A moment later the door swings open, and Malfoy's in front of her, wearing a pair of jeans slung low on his hips, his chest bare and his hair mussed and touselled. "Oh," he says. "Sorry. I thought you were Potter. He always comes back because he's left his fucking room key up here."

"Just me." A wave of embarrassment goes through Althea. "Look, can I come in for a moment?"

She thinks Malfoy's going to say no, but he hesitates, then stands back, holding the door wide. "Yeah, sure."

Potter's room is bigger than hers, with a small sitting area just inside the door and long windows that look out across the East River. It's tidy, though, and Althea walks over to the window ledge, looking out at the view. "Nice," she says, and when she turns her head, she catches a glimpse of the bedroom. There are two suitcases in the corner, and she realises then that Malfoy, for all intents and purposes, is living here with the guv now. 

She doesn't know why that confirmation surprises her. It shouldn't.

"Did you want something?" Malfoy asks from behind her, and Althea turns. He's pulling a shirt on, and his arm's been rebandaged, she notices. His hair's still a bit damp from his shower. 

Althea hops up on the window ledge, letting her long legs dangle a bit, her toes skimming the floor. An amused look crosses Malfoy's face, but it doesn't linger. "I wanted to talk," Althea says, and she watches Malfoy as he buttons his shirt. 

Malfoy leaves the first two buttons undone. "About?" 

"Your arm," she says, and Malfoy flinches a little. "Does it still hurt?"

"Some." Malfoy walks into the loo, and she can hear him rattling through a bag of some sort. "It's better than it was." His voice echoes off the tile. 

Althea hesitates. She ought to be back in her own room, getting dressed to go in. She wonders where the guv went. If she asks, she doubts Malfoy'll tell her. "The bleeding?"

Malfoy doesn't say anything until he comes back out. He's pulled his hair up, twisted it into a messy knot at the back of his head. It looks good on him, she thinks, makes the angles of his face look sharper, more defined. He just scowls at her, arms crossed over his chest. His shirt's tucked in now, the jeans still low on his hips, a thick brown belt threaded through the denim loops. "It's almost stopped."

"Almost." Althea's a bit appalled. "Jesus, Malfoy, have you shown it to the guv?"

"He's enough to worry about right now," Malfoy says, and there's a stubborn lift to his chin. "Look, did you just come up here to ask me about that? Because I'd have been more than happy to text you--"

"I wanted to say I'm sorry," Althea blurts out, and Malfoy falls silent. She looks away, out the window towards the city below them. Fuck, but it really is a spectacular view. "For harrassing you all these years."

Malfoy blinks, slow and surprised. "All right."

Althea twists the pale pink hem of her ribbed tank top around her fingers. It pulls it a little too far down her bare tits, but Malfoy's not going to care about that, is he? She lets it go, lets the fabric slide back up. "I lashed out," she says after a moment. "I was so angry about my mum--" Her voice catches. She still can't look at Malfoy. "I knew it wasn't you, but they weren't there, Dolohov and Yaxley, and I needed someone to be angry at."

"Me," Malfoy says quietly. He moves, goes to sit on the edge of the sofa. Althea glances over at him then. His face is pale, his mouth drawn. "You went after me," he says, and she nods. 

"I was there the night my mum was killed," Althea says after a moment. "I was fifteen, and we'd had dinner. Mum'd made my favourite. Bangers and mash." Her throat hurts so badly just thinking about her mother singing in the kitchen as she cooked, Althea at the table, helping her scrape the potatoes clean, digging out the eyes with a sharp knife. "God, I haven't been able to eat that since."

Malfoy's just looking up at her, his face shuttered. 

Althea breathes out, glances back out over the city. She can see her pale face reflected in the window. "My mother was a Yaxley, did you know that? Corban Yaxley, the man who brought Antonin Dolohov into our house to kill her, was her cousin." She laughs, and it's a harsh, angry sound in the silence. "Mum was a Slytherin too. So colour me twice a hypocrite for turning on you. Saying none of you would make good Aurors. Mum was brilliant. Ruthless at her job, but that's what made her a good journo, my dad says. You can't lose that edge or you turn out like him. Fucking up your career because you can't get past seeing your wife Crucio'd to death in front of you."

There's a quick, sharp breath from the sofa, and Malfoy says, "Merlin, I'm sorry, Althea."

"I still have nightmares about it." Althea glances over at Malfoy. He has his hands folded together, pressed to his mouth, and there's a look in his eyes that's raw and anguished. "I shouldn't have taken them out on you," she says. "But the Mark…" She turns away, shame burning deep inside her belly. "I never knew you did that because of me."

Malfoy's quiet for a moment. "It wasn't just you," he says finally. "It was all of you lot. The whole fucking wizarding world as a whole." His voice is quiet. "I may have taken a Diffindo to my skin because you said something that pushed me over the edge, but it was a multitude of tiny pricks and slashes and stings that built me up to that night. And it wasn't just you delivering them." He falls silent, breathes out, then says, "The only person who's never made me feel that way about the Mark is Potter. Even before...us."

When Althea looks over at him, his cheeks are pink. "Yeah?"

"Potter argued for me," Malfoy says. "For my family." He licks his lip. "When the hearings happened after the War ended. He told them Mother had helped him, that I'd kept him safe in Malfoy Manor, and we had, both of us. He even said Father'd left the Dark Lord's side in the Battle of Hogwarts. It was all true, but we did it to save ourselves. Not out of any noble virtue." Malfoy drops his hands between his thighs, staring down at the floor. A small wisp of his hair falls forward across his cheek, loosened from the knot at the back of his head. "Malfoys are terribly good a self-preservation," he says with a faint curve of a his mouth. "But Potter…" He catches his lip between his teeth, then lets it slide free. "Potter pulled me aside afterwards, and he told me that the Mark on my arm didn't define who I was. Who I could be." There's a softness, a tenderness to his voice that sparks a deep envy in Althea. If she didn't suspect Malfoy was in love with the guv already, she would now. 

Malfoy looks up at her. "I've never forgotten that. It's been almost eight years." He sounds a little surprised. 

"You're not the man I thought you were," Althea says. She's glad of that. "You're more…" She thinks. "You're not softer. You're a prickly bastard, but I think I like that about you. But you're fair, and you're trying, and maybe you and I are broken in similar places."

"Maybe that's why you hated me so much," Malfoy says with a small smile. 

He's probably right, Althea thinks. "Maybe."

They look at each other, then Malfoy stands up, wipes his palm on the side of his jeans and walks towards her, hand outstretched. "Colleagues?" he asks. 

Althea's fingers close around his. "Friends, maybe even," she says. "Or working that way."

Malfoy's eyes crinkle at the corners. "I wouldn't mind trying. I'll warn you that I'm a sodding bastard, though."

"And I'm a ray of cuddly sunshine?" Althea raises an eyebrow. "I reckon we're both a little more prickly than people might like."

"I think you might actually fit into Seven-Four-Alpha," Malfoy says. "I hear they might be looking for a new sergeant." His mouth twists to the side. 

Althea snorts. "Fuck that shit if you think I'm stepping into your shoes. Parkinson would flay me alive." She considers. "Probably in fuck-me-heels and a steel corset at the time."

Malfoy laughs, and Althea likes the way his face changes, the lines that score each side of his mouth as it widens. "You learn fast, Whitaker."

"It's not a bad mental image." Althea smiles at him and slides off the window ledge. "Pity she's straight, yeah?"

"And a rank below you," Malfoy says, "but that's not really something your SIO would be able to whinge about, would he?"

"One would hope not." Althea looks back from the door. "Thanks, Malfoy."

Malfoy just nods. "I'm sorry about your mother," he says and she knows he means it. "No one should ever have to go through that. Especially at the hands of family."

Something hot and painful wells up inside Althea, and she catches the sob before it slips out. She exhales, scratches her neck with her stubby fingernails, glances away. "No," she says. "No one ever should." And she's going to find Dolohov, make certain nothing like that happens again to anyone else's family. 

When she looks back at Malfoy, she thinks he understands.

***

Freddie settles back in her armchair, her small round body turned towards Harry, a cup of tea floating beside her on its saucer, pale amber in the bone china. She sends another towards Harry with a swish of her wand. "So this Morsmordre," she says. "It must have been very unsettling for you, oui?"

If only she knew. "A bit." Harry plucks the teacup out of midair, less because he wants to drink it and more for something to occupy his hands. 

"Ah, and there's that famed British understatement." Freddie's face creases into a smile, but it only lasts for a moment. "It couldn't have been easy to see such a mark in the sky after all these years." She looks troubled. Harry knows that the rest of Europe had been mostly insulated from Voldemort's rise, but still, people had family and friends in England at the time. They'd heard things, it'd been reported in the wizarding papers, and, when the Ministry fell to the Death Eaters, so many governments had been terrified that their own seats of power were next. When Harry'd first gone to Luxembourg as a law enforcement consultant on Dark Arts practitioners, he'd had politician after politician come up to him, just to shake his hand, thank him for stopping Voldemort.

As if Harry'd done it alone. Jesus. They'd no idea. Any of them. 

The teacup's warm in his cold hands. It's raining in Paris, staving the summer heat off a little, and it's so different from the steaming humidity of New York that Harry feels a bit disoriented. He shifts in his chair, and Freddie just watches him, blowing lightly across her own cup of tea before taking a sip. 

Harry sighs. "It wasn't easy," he agrees. He looks out the rain-streaked window, at the grey courtyard, the gleam of a light behind drawn curtains. The row of blue glass vases on the window sill are reflected in the glass panes, slightly wavery in the rivulets of rain. One of them has a chip on the rim, he notices. "I almost didn't come today."

"That would have been understandable," Freddie says. "Unfortunate, though. I'm glad you decided to see me."

"A friend told me to," Harry says. He doesn't add that he'd almost changed his mind a second time when he'd gone upstairs to change clothes and found Malfoy sitting on the sofa in his pants, flipping through channels on the telly. He'd wanted to sit there with him, press his face against Malfoy's soft skin. But when he'd admitted he had an appointment with his Mind Healer, Malfoy'd pushed him off, told him to get dressed and go. 

Harry had. 

"It never gets easier," Harry says after a long moment. Freddie tilts her head at him, and he takes a sip of tea. "Seeing the Morsmordre. It's been eight years and I still had that same burst of fear in me that I had when I was sixteen." He swallows. "I saw my first one at the Quidditch World Cup--" He stops. "No, that's not true. It was probably when I was a baby. When Voldemort killed my mum and dad." And oh, the pain swells and twists inside of him. He'd thought he'd put that away, that he'd become used to that deep absence, that he'd made peace with his parents' deaths that night in the Forbidden Forest. 

But the grief that he still feels nearly takes his breath away, sharp and stabbing and vicious in his heart, making his whole body tense and shift forward, his shoulders hunched with the heaviness of it all. 

Freddie waits, holding that grief with him, letting him have the space and the silence to feel. 

It ebbs finally, and Harry can breathe, can sit back, can look up at her. "How can you miss people you can't even remember?" he asks, and Christ, but his heart feels as if it's being pierced by a thousand tiny needles, sharp and hot. 

"But you do remember, monsieur." Freddie's voice is soft. "You spent over a year with them, more inside your mother's womb. You knew their voices, their faces. They took care of you. They loved you, and you loved them. They were your parents. And something inside of you holds those memories, whether or not you can bring them back to the surface now. You've never forgotten your mère and père, whatever your mind might think."

And that's Harry's undoing. He sets his tea aside, his hand shaking, takes off his glasses and drops them onto his lap. He presses the balls of his palms against his eyes, trying so hard not to let himself cry. 

Harry fails. 

It's quiet at first, slow tears that seep from beneath his lashes, and then he's bent forward, his arms folded on his knees, his shoulders shaking as the loss hits him again. Of his parents. Of Sirius. Of Remus. 

Of his family. 

He'd been so young, so tiny, and he'd had everything he'd known ripped from him, everyone he'd loved, and his aunt and uncle had been so afraid of him, so ashamed of him and what he was. What he is. 

The torrent of anger and fear and sadness fades finally, and Harry's left feeling fragile and small and broken. 

Harry closes his eyes and breathes out, his face buried against his arms. He doesn't want to look up, doesn't want to see Freddie watching him, doesn't want to acknowledge his weakness in front of her. It takes every ounce of courage he has to lift his head.

And Freddie's standing at the window, her back to him. Harry's grateful. He pulls a tissue from the packet on the table beside his chair, wipes his eyes, and leans back, suddenly so very exhausted. 

Silence stretches out between them before Freddie turns and sits back in her chair. 

"Please be kind to yourself, Harry," she says. "You're crossing your own paths here, going past your younger self, your own history. It may be painful at times."

Harry nods, unable to speak for a moment.

"You have the calming potion I gave you last time," Freddie says, and Harry looks away. She sighs. "It's not weakness to take it, Harry."

"It feels as if it is," Harry says, and he tries to hide the truth of his words with a small smile. 

Freddie doesn't appear to be fooled. "What we feel is not always reality," she says. "Tell me, if you were wounded in the line of duty and given pain potions would you refuse them? Would you turn down an anaesthetic if you were undergoing a surgery at hospital?"

Harry slides his glasses back on. "No," he admits. 

"It's no different for your mind," Freddie says. "You've experienced a great deal of trauma in your young life, Monsieur Potter--and please, do believe me when I say it is a young life. You are what? Twenty-five?"

"Almost twenty-six," Harry says. He feels scooped out. Gutted. 

Freddie gives him a sympathetic look. "And you've lost your parents. Your godfather. Friends and family. You've fought a Dark Lord who wanted you dead; you've faced down your own mortality before you were eighteen. You do understand that's not a normal life, oui?"

Harry's lips twitch to one side. "Sometimes it seems as if it is."

"Because it's your daily lived existence." Freddie shifts in her chair, crossing one leg beneath the other. "You would be surprised at the things to which the human psyche can adjust. And after all that, you've gone into a career where the possibility of danger is the highest. Pain, physical harm, death even."

"Not in the corridors of power," Harry says, thinking of his years in Luxembourg. And yet he thinks he understands what she means. 

Freddie shakes her head. "How many of your team have been harmed in the past two months, Harry?"

And Harry thinks of Zabini and Malfoy and seeing them both lying pale and still in hospital, how that had terrified him, how he'd worried he was leading them both into tragedy. Malfoy especially, and Harry can't bear the thought of that. He draws in a slow, ragged breath and looks up at Freddie. "It's complicated. All of this.

"How so?" Freddie asks.

"One of my team," Harry says after a moment, "had family on the other side. Was on it himself even."

"He's not still…" Freddie lets the question hang open. 

Harry shakes his head. "No. He's not." He rubs at his face, presses his fingertips against his sore eyes. "But last night…" The memory of Malfoy's pale face lit by the last shimmers of the Morsmordre chills him. "I need to keep him safe."

"Is that really your responsibility?" Freddie raises her eyebrows. "You don't have to rescue everyone--"

To be honest, Harry doesn't know why he says it, but the words spill out before he can stop himself. "I'm sleeping with him."

Freddie looks at him. 

"I'm sleeping with him," Harry says again, and he doesn't turn away from her silent gaze. "And I'm pretty fucking sure I'm in love with him. So." Harry shifts in his chair, and he can feel the crackle of parchment in his jacket pocket. Malfoy's transfer papers. Harry'd almost forgotten about them; he hasn't worn this jacket in days. It's been hanging in his closet since they arrived on Sunday, and fuck, but the thought of those papers sends a ripple of hurt going through him again. 

Malfoy won't need those now, he supposes. Or at least not yet, and that's another sting. 

Freddie steeples her fingers against her mouth. "Well," she says after a long moment. "I think perhaps we have some further things to work out, oui, monsieur?"

Fuck do they ever, Harry thinks.

***

Draco knocks on the door to Durant's office precisely at ten. Not a moment before, not a moment later, his watch timed to the MACUSA servers.

"Come in," Durant calls out, and Draco pushes at the half-open door. Durant's office is larger than he expected, but then again, most of the MACUSA spaces feel that way to him. Draco's used to the rabbit warren of tiny rooms in the Ministry, half of them added on into wizarding space willy-nilly as they were needed over the years. The Woolworth Building's different. There's wizarding space, obviously, but it's mostly gridded out from the wide central hallway on each floor. 

It's dim in the office, compared to the brightly lit corridor, and Draco's eyes take a moment to adjust. He blinks, looking around at the dark panelled walls and the single, narrow window to the side that barely lets in any light. There's a lamp floating just above Durant's desk, green and brass and it casts a warm golden glow across the parchment-strewn blotter. 

"Sorry," Durant says, not bothering to stand up. "I tend to like it a bit darker than most. Keeps the mind calmer."

Draco doesn't really care. He feels uncomfortable and tired, his eyes itchy and rough from lack of sleep, and this is the last place Draco wants to be right now. 

Judging from the look on Durant's face, he's not alone in that.

Durant nods to the chair opposite his desk. It's low and squat and leather, obviously worn and not standard MACUSA issue. "Let's talk a bit."

The chair creaks a little when Draco sits on it. His narrow hips don't come close to filling the wide seat, and Draco feels a bit like a small boy, thoughts of sitting in his father's study whilst he worked coming to mind. 

Except Lucius's desk had been much grander. Durant's is simple, more like a table than a desk, really, and the wood's been stained a deep, dark colour that only just clashes with the leather of the chair. 

Durant just studies Draco for a moment. He looks tired as well, and Draco wonders if any of them truly slept after Greenpoint. Still, rumpled exhaustion looks good on Durant, and that annoys Draco more than he'd like to admit. Durant's handsome in his wrinkled pale pink shirt, open at the throat, his dark blond curls falling over his forehead. He needs a shave, and that's wretchedly attractive. Draco without shaving charms looks like he's a fourteen-year-old with a patchy upper lip. 

"You're angry," Durant says finally. 

"Whyever would I be?" Draco tries to keep his voice light, but he _is_ bloody furious about all of this, from Graves and Granger hijacking him to Durant being the one to fucking train him, but there's something about Durant being able to read him this clearly that irks Draco. Besides, he can feel Durant prodding at the edges of his mind, and he makes certain his Occlumens is up before frowning at him. "You do know that's rude, yes?"

And Durant half-smiles. "Not many people can feel a mental touch like that."

"I suppose I'm just special then." Draco meets his gaze evenly. 

"Or a very talented natural neuromancer." Durant sits forward, and Draco can tell his interest is piqued. "Your Occlumens is the best I've ever encountered."

Draco hates that he's a bit flattered by that. "So you've said before." He slouches back in the chair, brown-booted ankle crossed over his denimed knee. "I'm not really interested in doing this."

At that Durant's eyebrow goes up. "Really. Because from where I'm sitting, I'm pretty fucking sure you're curious at least." 

"I've no idea what you mean." Draco looks out the window, his mouth tightening. A pigeon perches on the windowsill, eyeing them both before swooping away. "Besides, it's ridiculous to think that because I can block people like you prodding about in my mind means that I'll be any fucking good at doing it myself."

Durant laughs a bit softly. "Oh, come on, Malfoy. You're not that stupid." He picks up a biro from his desk and rolls it between his fingertips. "Legilimency itself isn't that difficult. Hell, even Harry can do a bit, although it's like having a Erumpent in heat stomping about in your mind."

Draco's surprised by that. 

"He didn't tell you?" Durant leans back in his chair, and Draco's face heats up. 

"Perhaps he was too busy fucking me," Draco says sharply, and Durant frowns, then laughs again. 

"Oh, p'tit boug" Durant says with a shake of his head. "You'll have to scratch a hell of a lot harder if you want to draw blood from me."

Rage implodes through Draco, and he's shaking, his body tense and tight as he leans forward. He can still feel Durant sliding through the fringes of his consciousness. "Fine," he says through gritted teeth. "Maybe I ought to share this then?" He lets his Occlumens fall, pushes forward an image of Potter, naked and trembling, crying out as Draco presses his prick deeper into his arse, looking out at the lights of Brooklyn.

 _I'm yours, Malfoy,_ Potter whispers as his hips press _Oh, Christ, I'm yours._

Draco feels Durant jerk back, and then there's a sharp twist in his mind, and he sees Potter in Draco's Slytherin Quidditch t-shirt, a breeze ruffling his hair as Durant says, _One last kiss, and I can finally let you go, you bastard._ And Draco's not a fool; he knows that look on Potter's face, the uncertainty, the longing, and he knows Potter wants to kiss Durant, can see the moment Potter gives in, says, _All right_ , and Christ, the kiss. Draco feels it against his own lips, the way Potter opens up beneath Durant's tongue, the soft sigh of Potter's breath as he presses against Durant--

"You shit," Draco says, and he shoves Durant out of his mind, so forcefully that Durant slams back against his chair with a soft grunt, blinking at Draco. Draco's breathing hard, but he lifts his chin. "He told me already," Draco spits out. "He didn't hide you from me, but he's not yours any more, Durant. He's mine." Draco's fingers are digging into the arm of the chair; he's leaning forward, and the anger that's swelling through him is fierce and hot and fast. "Touch him again like that, and I will gut you, do you understand?" He lets his mind slam another image forward--Durant writhing on the floor in pain--pushing, pushing, pushing it until he feels Durant twisting that image, pinching it shut until it disappears with a sharp pop.

And then Draco's slumped in the chair, gasping, and Durant's looking at him, his eyes narrowed. "Well."

"Fuck you," Draco manages to get out. He feels as if he's run a mile, perhaps two, at top speed.

Durant's on his feet then, and Draco flinches. Durant walks over to the window, staring out at it. He draws in a slow breath. "You've never been trained in Legilimency."

"No." Draco watches him. Durant's shoulders are tight. He doesn't look back at Draco. 

"Goddamn," Durant says, and he runs a hand through his hair. It shakes just a bit. "You did that with no training." His voice is low. "Admittedly, I wasn't expecting it, so you got past my defences a bit easier than you might have."

Draco breathes out, tries to slow the pounding of his heart. 

"Christ." Durant turns back to Draco, and his face is drawn. Unsettled. "The amount of power…" He rubs at his jaw. "You're good. Damn good, and I've worked with a lot of Legilimens." He hesitates. "Maybe even better than me, once you're trained." Durant gives Draco a sideways look. "Eventually."

Draco doesn't know what to say. He's never done that before, never thought he could. "I don't know how I did that," he says after a moment. His voice is rough; he licks his lips. 

"Anger." Durant walks back over, leans his arse against his desk. He's only a foot or so away from Draco; it's too close for Draco's comfort. "You lashed out. Shitty of you, but I suppose my reaction wasn't much better."

For a moment, the image of Potter looking at Durant, Draco's t-shirt stretched across his shoulders, fills Draco's mind, and the fury roils back up to the surface.

"Calm the fuck down," Durant says, and Draco scowls over at him. Durant doesn't look away. "Ground rules. You have to keep your temper in check. Worst thing you can do as a neuromancer is let that get the better of you. You'll overload yourself and probably whomever you're working with. That's the last thing you want or you'll end up in Bonavista on the psychomagical floor."

Draco nods. "That's what Severus told me." His Head of House had drilled that into him, over and over and over until Draco'd learnt to press his emotions down, push them into their own small corner and ignore them. Aunt Bella, on the other hand, had never bothered. Then again she was already mad as damned hatter. "When I learnt Occlumency," Draco adds.

"Good." Durant unbuttons the cuffs on his sleeves and rolls them up to his elbows. His forearms are muscled, the hairs golden. Draco thinks Durant could throw him up against the wall with one hand if he wanted to, and he shivers. He's not entirely certain it's in fear. "Second ground rule. You don't put anything in my head like that ever again, and I won't go after yours." He looks away. "I'm not saying we're going to be able to keep Harry out of any of this. You might stumble across him in my mind, and vice versa. But I can fucking well promise you I'll do my best to keep him out my head while we're working if you do the same."

"Fine," Draco says. He's still shaken by the image of that kiss, still so fucking angry at Potter for leaning into it, for letting his lips move across Durant's, his tongue enter his mouth.

"Malfoy." Durant's voice is sharp. "Pull yourself together." Draco blinks at him, lets the anger slide away, and Durant relaxes. He pushes himself off his desk. "All right then. Let's get to work."

Circe, but Draco has no sodding idea how he's going to make it through the rest of this day.

***

Pansy's stopped being tired. She's not sure why. She'd been up until seven with the MACUSA magiforensics team at Greenpoint, sweeping every inch of the cell block for any and all magical traces and samples they could find, regardless of whether or not they tracked to any of the known suspects. There'd been an enormous Central Lab response team out, and Pansy'd loved being in the thick of it. She'd never worked with a team that large before; the Ministry usually only sends out teams of three or four at a time. To be surrounded by scrubs had been brilliant, really. Pansy loves fieldwork, loves crouching down for hours in a cleansuit to make certain every strand of hair, every wisp of magical signature's been recorded. No one really understands that except other magiforensicologists. When they'd dispersed, she'd grabbed a few hours of sleep at the hotel, showered, and then come right back into the lab. She hasn't lost herself in her work in far too long, she thinks, and she's so glad she can just immerse herself in the concrete details.

Now her workbench is covered with notes and she's got a second bench going--Josephine'd told her she could take whatever space she likes, as long as she leaves the spots near the window free. Honestly, Pansy's lucky; the lab had extra bench spaces here because one of their lab techs left for a private firm--the pay was better, Josephine had said and Pansy believes it--and the other is out on maternity leave, so she can spread out as much as she likes. Josephine's quiet and keeps to herself for the most part, but she's friendly enough when Pansy needs to ask her how to find something. And somehow Pansy's been bumped up a rung or two on the pecking order now. Marie, the order processing witch has been expediting everything she's asked for this morning, and Pansy's barely needed to wait for supplies. Frankly, she suspects her row yesterday with Tony's helped that along. Marie'd been bloody sympathetic after Tony'd walked out. 

Men, Pansy thinks viciously. The whole lot of them can just sod off to hell, for all she cares. Althea's got it right, really. Who needs men when you've got a dildo and your fingers to get you off?

Pansy finishes a report on the ballistics from the exploded biometric scanner and takes a new set of documents from the pile. She glances through the heading, her eyes catching on a familiar name. Durant. Edward Fontenot Durant. She scans the contents and starts to set it aside. It's just clothing residue from his arrest. Nothing important really, and she's sure someone must have already cross-referenced it in the database. There's something bothering her about it though, niggling at the back of her mind, and whilst she's trying to focus, the door opens and Tony walks in.

"Leave," Pansy commands. "Just turn right around and get the fuck out of my lab." She's not in any mood to deal with him right now. She looks down at the file in her hands and adds. "Although it is comforting to know you do know how to use a door handle properly."

"It's not your lab." Tony holds his hands up in a gesture of surrender. "But I come in peace, Pans. And with Potter." He nods over his shoulder at the guv, who's right behind him, looking a bit tired and grim. She wonders if he's okay, if it's just the case or if he's had a row with Draco. She hopes it's not the latter. Draco's a bit too fragile already, she thinks, and it's been a fucking long Friday for all of them.

Potter looks between Pansy and Tony for a moment, his brow furrowing, and Pansy can tell he's trying to figure out what's going on between the two of them. Honestly, the guv's so perceptive sometimes and completely oblivious others, and fuck if Pansy can figure out which mood he's in at any given time. "Hey, Parkinson. I wanted to check on what the findings were." Potter gestures with his head to Tony. "But if Goldstein's distracting you, I can get rid of him."

Tony smiles, as if it's a joke. Pansy knows it's not entirely. Potter's trying to tell her he'll protect her, that he'll disappear Tony if he needs to, and that he gets the discomfort of the situation. And, Merlin, after all he's done with Draco, shouldn't he, she thinks.

"No, the arsehole can stay." Pansy smiles tightly at Potter. "But only if you'll vouch for him."

Potter nods, a bit speculatively, as if he's assessing new levels of threat in the room. Perceptive today, then. "I see," he says, and Pansy thinks he actually might. "So what can you tell us then?"

"Give me a minute," Pansy says. She taps the file in front of her. "I just want to finish going through this, if that's okay."

"Sure." Potter slides onto one of the stools at an empty lab bench. "Whatever you need."

Tony crosses his arms and leans a hip against the nearest lab bench to the door. He's looking put out and sulky. Good, Pansy thinks. She takes her time scanning the file, although she's having trouble concentrating with Tony only feet away from her. She annoyed that she can be so furious with the bastard and still wish they were alone so Tony could throw her across a workbench and fuck her senseless. Circe, what the hell is wrong with her? Pansy hates that Tony can make her nipples hard with just a glower, and she discreetly crosses her arm across her chest before going back to the file. There's something that's funny about this list of markers from Eddie's clothing. Something these residues should be telling her if she could just concentrate long enough. A bell rings dimly in her memory.

Pansy looks up, and Potter's eyeing her. "Sorry, guv," she says. "It's just..." She looks back down again at the list. Long pepper. Saltpetre. She thinks back to the list from the Picquery Apothecary and the reactions she's testing today. "Fuck," she says, her eyes widening. "I've got it."

"Got what?" Potter positions himself between her and Tony who is still sulking and pretending to look bored, his eyes on the door.

"Hold on." Pansy digs through the pile of reports. "Did I print that out yet?" Fuck, she hasn't. She hurries over to the terminal across the room and taps in a few commands, bringing up the evidence database. She scrolls through the files, her eyes searching across the long list before she finds what she's looking for. Another tap and the file pops up. She scans it. "No fingerprint match for the access point," she says half under her breath. She sends the file to her laptop, sitting on the workbench, then walks back over.

"We already know that," Potter says, and Pansy waves a hand at him, shushing him. She pulls the thumb drive Granger had given her from her pocket and puts it into the laptop port, taking a moment to pull up the file she'd just transferred over from the MACUSA database.

"Do not fail me now, Granger," she says. She prays to HaShem that Granger's put more than the Morsmordre research on here, prays that there's a backdoor entrance to the Ministry database. She opens the drive, making certain her finger's on the edge of the stick, her magical signature registered, and fuck if it's not right there, in the list of filenames. "Oh, you fucking gorgeous woman," she murmurs. "I could kiss you on the mouth if you were here right now."

She can feel Tony and Potter exchanging a glance behind her. 

"Fuck off, the both of you and your filthy little minds," Pansy says, and Potter snorts in amusement. Pansy enters her Ministry credentials and watches as the database activates. It only takes her a moment to find what she needs. She pulls up a photograph of the access plate and its burnt fingerprints, then runs it against the Ministry records she's digitised and attached to her case files. 

It matches in seconds. 

"Those are Luka Abadzhiev's fingerprints." Pansy can't keep the astonishment off her face. She knows she's right. She turns around to face Potter and Tony. 

"But he's dead," Potter says blankly, and Pansy realises she's going to have to spell it out for him.

"It was a fucking Hand of Glory," she says. "His hand was missing when we found him." She runs her hands through her hair, pushing it back off her face. "We didn't know why? Remember? But Dolohov must have taken it." She's thrilled and a bit horrified. "My God, he's a sick bastard."

Potter draws a bit closer. "What?"

Pansy rescans the list to check, but she's certain of it in her marrow. "Fucking Eddie Durant was making a fucking Hand of Glory for Dolohov." She can't believe it herself, but it's got to be. That's the only thing this set of ingredients could be useful for.

Tony's abandoned his disinterest; he's moved to hover right over Potter's shoulder now. "The delivery? That's what Durant was bringing to the warehouse the day we raided it?"

Pansy is briefly aware that she's found more in her reports that Tony did with an actual raid. She wants to rub the point in, but that would give him the satisfaction of rowing with her again, and she thinks he likes that even more than she does. They're both twisted fucks, she thinks. Instead, she taps the list in her hand with a finger, drawing Potter's attention and talking to him. He's her guv and Tony can listen in like the spy he is. "Eddie had long pepper and saltpetre on his clothes. And the Soul Grass in that small of an amount could be used as a fixative, I think. It's been known to have that use. I'm not sure about the mandrake." She thinks for a moment. "Anti-petrification for the mummified flesh, maybe. To let the fingers bend and move."

Potter looks down at the file, then back up at her face. "That's amazing, Parkinson. Do you think that's how they got into the holding facility?"

"I think it could be part of it," Pansy says thoughtfully. "Although there was a lot of spellwork, too, so I'm wondering if the Hand's finished. You usually need to leave it in the sun for days to let it dry out." She pauses for a moment, visualizing the data she has so far. "Eddie might have delivered it partially ready, and then told Dolohov he needed to put it in the sun. And he may not have made the candle yet." She frowns. "We should find out from Eddie when he's capable of talking." If he is, she thinks, but there's no need to say that, to put it out into the ether. "But they're still powerful, even before they've been fully cured. If it had been fully operational, I'm not sure they would have had to blast the doors, at least with that much force. But it might have explained how they got the jump on the guards."

"Great work." Potter beams at her, and Pansy smiles back. "It gives us so fucking much more to go on."

Tony shakes his head in wonder from behind Potter's shoulder. "You're really amazing. You know that, yeah?" The gruff note of awe in Tony's voice makes Pansy's knees a bit weak, but she doesn't look into his eyes. Pansy can't. She needs to get over her weakness for him, or at least pretend she's over him until it goes away. Or he does. One or the other.

"Thanks," Pansy says, suddenly a bit overwhelmed. She takes a deep breath.

"Do you think you can write up a report this afternoon?" Potter's watching her face carefully, and she knows he's caught the exchanges between her and Tony. She may need to have a talk with Potter about all this, and that thought surprises her. Somehow Potter's gone from being just a guv to a friend. Her face heats, and she turns away to hide being flustered. 

"I'm sorry to ask for a quick turnaround," Potter adds, "but I have to go back to London for a meeting at five with Kingsley, Croaker, and Gawain, and it would be great to have some preliminaries to share with them. I know you have the Morsmordre data to process too."

Pansy looks over the files spread across her bench and the tests she has ready on the one next to it. The laptop with Granger's enchanted memory stick is in front of her--thank Circe she'd brought her personal laptop with her, just in case--as is the file on Morsmordre data. "I think I can tie it together. It's not much time, but I can write up a few notes on what we've got."

"That would be brilliant." Potter steps away, pulling Tony with him. "We'll leave you to it."

Tony glances back at her as Potter marches him out of the door. She watches them disappear, then turns back to her bench.

Pansy's quivering with excitement, and for once, it's not about bloody Tony Goldstein. Sure, she's cracked a big piece of the puzzle, but there's miles to go before she can present coherent data in a report. 

Time to gather it together she thinks, tucking in to the piles of information in front of her.

First, though, she's going to need more coffee.

A bloody hell of a lot more, to be honest.

***

"Let's try it again, Malfoy."

The armpits of Jake's shirt are soaked through with sweat; his hair's sticking to his forehead, his temple. They've been at this for hours, only stopping for a quick sandwich just after two. 

Malfoy looks as if he's about to fall on his face. He's sweating more than Jake, despite the cooling charms Jake's cast on the office. He draws the back of his hand over his mouth, breathing hard. "You're a sodding sadist." His feet are bare; he'd kicked off his boots when they'd come back from the cafeteria. 

"Probably." Jake circles Malfoy, studying him with a critical eye. He knows this is too much for one day, particularly after the night they'd both had. Jake wants to go back to Bonavista, wants to check in on his brother. Espinoza'd stopped by an hour ago, told him that Eddie was still barely responsive, that the Healers were dosing him with potions to pull him back to himself. Jake's concerned about Eddie, but he can't let himself think too much about what's going on there or else he'll start to panic, that old feeling coming back from when he'd watched the cancer eat at his mama's neuromagical centres. He's actually glad he's training Malfoy in a way. The man's clever and sharp and Jake has no doubt he's in the presence of a talented neuromancer, even if Malfoy doesn't realise it yet. Jake's had to be quick on his feet, and the attention it's taken to keep his focus in their sparring has kept him from worrying. 

At least too much. 

"Normally," Jake says, "I'd take you through this at a slower clip. Over a week or two, maybe, but Tom wants you up to speed as soon as we can get you, and, frankly, you're good. Maybe a little too good, even." He takes in Malfoy's flushed cheeks and the way his hair's starting to slip out of the knot on the back of his head, small, gilt tendrils curling around the limp collar of his shirt. He has to say, Malfoy's stood up better than he'd expected. Jake's having to work to keep his Occlumens in place, and that usually takes a solid three to four weeks of training before a recruit can put him through his paces like Malfoy is. "You just have to learn to control yourself a bit better. Right now you're trying to plow through my mind. That's not going to work. You know that as an Occlumens, yeah?"

Malfoy bounces on his feet, shaking his hands. He's getting edgy, Jake thinks. It's not uncommon at the start of Legilimency training. There's so much energy going through your brain, so many magical synapses firing that it's almost like being wired on ten double-shot espressos. "Because you'll feel me."

Jake nods. He puts a hand on Malfoy's thin shoulder, trying to settle him, sending a calming image of a stream trickling across the edges of Malfoy's mind. "You want it more like this. Barely noticeable, if at all."

Malfoy stills, and Jake can feel the roiling of Malfoy's mental energy settle just a bit. He's hardly got through the crevices and crannies in Malfoy's mind this afternoon. Every push Jake had made with his Legilmency, Malfoy had blocked with Occlumency. It'd been the mental equivalent of going up against an exceptionally well trained pugilist, and Jake's getting goddamned tired. 

To be honest, he's surprised that Harry hasn't come by. He's got enough from Malfoy's thoughts to know that Harry's unhappy that Malfoy's training with Jake, that Harry thinks it's a shit idea. 

Hell, Jake agrees. 

Still, he's glad Harry's kept his distance today. This has been hard enough with his presence in the background of everything Malfoy and Jake are doing. Jake can't imagine how distracted and pissy Malfoy would be if Harry actually fucking showed up. 

"You try," Jake says with a nod towards Malfoy, and Malfoy rolls his shoulders, shifts from foot to foot. Jake feels the press of Malfoy against his mind. "Lighter. Don't clench your body so much. Keep it loose. Limber." He watches as Malfoy struggles to hold himself less tightly. Jake reaches out, pushes at Malfoy's biceps. " You're too tense, and every time you come at my mind, I can feel that. You need to relax. It's like good sex. You need to fucking breathe through it, yeah?" 

That gets Malfoy's attention, and Jake hides a smile. For a moment he thinks Malfoy's going to protest, but instead he closes his eyes and inhales. Slow and steady and even, and when Malfoy's eyes open again, Jake can barely feel the tickle of Malfoy sliding through his thoughts. 

_Good,_ Jake thinks. _Ease your way into it._

Malfoy doesn't look away from him, and those grey eyes are so cool and level still. Jake breathes out, waiting. He feels the faintest touch across his mind, as if a latch is being undone, and a memory rises up, faint and almost indistinct, growing brighter and brighter. His mama's face, round and soft, dark plaits wrapped around her head. Jake lets it sit there for a moment, and he can sense Malfoy examining it, holding the memory in his own mind before he lets it slip back, disappearing from whence it came. 

"She looks nice," Malfoy says. "Élodie."

"My mother." Jake watches him, feels Malfoy push towards another memory, and he knows this one's of his first date with Harry. He lets his Occlumens deepen. "Not that one," he says. There's no sense in tormenting Malfoy. Or antagonising him any further. 

Malfoy just nods and he slips through Jake's mind, tweaking and teasing at fragments of memories, pulling them to the surface and then letting them slip back away. Damn, but Malfoy's starting to get the hang of it, Jake thinks. Faster than he had even, and that irks Jake a bit. 

And distracts him. 

Not much, but it's enough to let Malfoy tug at the string of another memory, this one sharper and barbed, the last memory he has of his father as a free man, drunk and ornery, screaming at Eddie, who's standing between a small, frightened Jake and his father, at least until Jasper Durant backhands Eddie, sending him staggering across the room. The memory's a blinding, searing pain after that, a cacophony of shouts and swearing, of his father's frightened face peering down at him, shouting at him to get up off the goddamn floor---

Jake shoves back. It's a kneejerk reaction, not one he thinks about, but his mind's reeling and he's shaking with the suddenness of that forgotten feeling and how terrified Jake'd been.

And then there are other memories coming at him, quick and angry, flooding over Jake, swallowing him. A faceless man--except it's not, there's a silver engraved mask hiding his features and a swirl of a dark robe. More of them surrounding him, and there's a circle of lit wands, voices raised around him in a chant and a man with a pale face, flat and serpentine, moving towards him and Christ the pain. It's so intense that Jake cries out, his body doubling over, and then the memories come again, the sharp click of boots in an empty hallway, a tall figure coming up beside him, laughing, fingers catching his sleeve, pulling him back into the shadows, up against the wall. 

_Perhaps the Dark Lord's promised you to me, boy,_ a voice whispers. _Soon, even. A fitting punishment for your father's ineptness and a delicious reward for my own ability to please His Lordship, wouldn't you say?_

There's a shift in the shadows, and he can see a face, sharp and pale with bright blue eyes. Another shadow but no, it's a beard, dark and full, and it's split by a cruel smile that makes Jake's body go cold. He can feel himself jerk away, but it's not his body, it's Malfoy's. 

_Uncle Rodolphus, stop--my father will--_

A harsh laugh. A touch on his face. _Your father's a fool, boy, and you know that. You'll need a protector--_

 _Not you._ Contemptuous. Terrified. He's toying with you. Playing like a predator with its prey. _Never you._

Fingers pressing into his throat, thumbnail digging against his trachea, sharp and vicious. _You'll do what I say. Perhaps I'll have you the first time spread out in your father's study, him watching, eh?_

Spittle striking a face, and then the sharp crack of a hand against a cheek. Pain again. And the taste of blood. 

_You're nothing. Your father's nothing. Perhaps I'll just kill you now--_

So much fear roiling up inside of Jake. The press of a wand against his throat, and he's certain this is it, that he's gone too far, pushed too hard. 

He's barely seventeen and he's going to die like this. 

Please do it. Please. Please. I can't. Not any longer. An odd calmness spreads across him, and he feels the Cruciatus bloom across his skin, hot and painful and _please._

 _Rodolphus, stop._ Another voice. Low and velvet, and there's a relief that courses through his body as it slumps against the wall. Anger too. Because perhaps this would have been the time he could have escaped it all. Voices arguing, and then footsteps, and he opens his eyes to a thin man with a hooked nose and lank, greasy hair stooped beside him. He trusts this man.

 _You fool._ But there's worry written across his face. _You have to stop provoking him. You know he just wants to see you squirm._

But his body hurts so badly, aches, burns, and the man's face slips away into another with cold, bright eyes and a scornful snarl, then one more with sharp yellowed teeth snapping at him as he passes in the corridor, a flung hex barely missing his shoulder. He flinches and laughter follows him as he runs as quickly as he can, hoping to slam the door of his room closed before they come after him. 

He's their toy, nothing more. They torment him, terrify him, but they never touch him--never cross that line. Not entirely. It's about power and cruelty and making him fear them even more than he already does, because he's the golden child fallen from favour, and Christ, his heart's pounding in his chest, and he slams the door shut and wards it, because at least here he's safe. 

For a little while. 

He can still hear the laughter down the corridor, and when the pounding comes on his door, he flinches and hides beneath his bed, even though he knows they won't come in, knows they wouldn't dare. 

And he sleeps with a knife beneath his pillow, and he's never told anyone that. No one knows. Not even his mother, not his father, not his friends. He keeps it secret because he's ashamed, and because the others know his secret. 

_I know what you are,_ the yellow toothed one says when he passes in the hallway. _I can smell the poof on you, boy._

Bottle it up, keep it quiet, keep still, don't breathe, never let them see you. Hide, hide, _hide_ \---

And Jake stumbles backwards, hitting his hip hard against his desk. Malfoy's on the floor, on his hands and knees, dry heaving across the rug, his whole body shaking, his hair hanging forward, hiding his pale face. 

"Jesus," Jake manages to say, and he feels ill, dirty, rattled. He drops down beside Malfoy, his hand between Malfoy's shoulder blades. "Breathe," he says, over and over and over again, a slow, gentle mantra until Malfoy's tremors start to settle.

Malfoy sits up, leans back against Jake's desk. His face is drenched with sweat, his eyes are dark and wide, and Jake knows Malfoy's not quite with him; he's still back in those memories. 

"Look at me," Jake says. "Malfoy. Come on, man. Look at me."

Slowly Malfoy blinks. His head turns, and Jake can see the moment Malfoy comes back, recognises Jake. A pink flush stains his cheeks. 

"I…" Malfoy clears his throat. Looks away. 

Jake just squats beside him, silent for a moment. "You're all right. Just breathe out." 

Malfoy does. 

"It happens to all of us," Jake says after a moment. He's still shattered himself from what he saw. He can't even imagine what Malfoy must be feeling. "It's part of the process--"

At that, Malfoy just laughs, hollow and raw.

Jake shakes his head. "I didn't mean to push like that. You took me by surprise--"

"My Occlumens failed," Malfoy says. His voice feels empty. Uncertain. 

"That's what I mean," Jake says. "It's hard to shift between a Legilimens and an Occlumens, much less hold them both at the same time. It takes practise to learn the balance, and it requires focussing skills that're fucking hellish. If you get it wrong, you can reverse the psychic undertow, so to speak, and pull someone deeper in, the way you did here. We all crack in training like this."

He doesn't point out that this is the most spectacular crumbling he's seen so far which means Malfoy's power is off the fucking charts as far as Jake can tell. He'd like to get him under the instruments at Tirésias, but they don't have that kind of time. Plus Malfoy's tired, Jake knows, and fragile at that. He can feel Malfoy's embarrassment. It's practically crawling across his skin. 

"You're not, you know," he says. 

Malfoy looks over at him. "What?" He sounds exhausted, his voice rough and shattered. 

"Shit at this." Jake watches him. "You're shouting it in my head."

And Malfoy scrubs his palms across his face. "Sorry." 

That's not the reaction Jake had wanted. "Stop apologising. Especially when you don't mean it. Jesus, Malfoy. What the fuck kind of adolescence did you have?"

"Not a particularly pleasant one." Malfoy's not looking at Jake, and Jake can tell he's barely holding it together. "That tends to happen when you have a pack of evil, murderous bastards wandering through the halls of your home…" He trails off, and a shudder goes through him. 

Jake doesn't want to bring it up. "Your uncle," he says hesitantly. 

"By marriage, not blood."

"Doesn't really make what he said to you any better," Jake points out, and Malfoy's mouth twists, just a little.

"He never touched me," Malfoy says, voice dull. "Roddy just liked to make me think he might." He presses his fingertips against his eyes again and breathes out. "I wasn't ever the real target."

"Your father was." Jake sits back on his heels, starting to get it. "Goddamn."

"Indeed." Malfoy leans his head back against the desk, drops his hands. It's only then that Jake sees the bit of blood staining Malfoy's sleeve, a small spot of bright red against the white.

"Fuck," Jake says and he reaches for Malfoy's arm. 

Malfoy pulls away with a hiss, but he looks down and swears when he sees the blood. 

"What," Jake starts to say, but Malfoy cuts him off with a shake of his head. 

"It's just the Mark." Malfoy looks so fucking tired, and there's a crease of pain in his forehead. "It's nothing. It'll stop."

Jake just looks at Malfoy. He doesn't understand this complex, difficult, prickly man sometimes. But Christ if he's not starting to respect him. A bit, at least. There's a hell of a lot more to Malfoy than he'd suspected, and he thinks he might see what Harry finds so compelling, so hard to walk away from. Fuck, Malfoy must be like goddamn catnip to Harry, who has a soft spot for broken, stitched-together people. 

Kind of like Jake does. 

He reaches out and touches Malfoy's shoulder. "We're done for today." Jake glances at his watch. It's twenty to five. "Look, maybe you should go find Harry. Or Blaise. Or someone who can help settle you a bit."

Malfoy give him a sardonic half-smile. "Not you?"

Jake snorts and shakes his head. "I don't really think you find me comforting, Malfoy."

"No," Malfoy says after a moment. "I don't particularly."

They look at each other for a moment, and then Jake stands, holding out a hand to Malfoy who takes it, albeit with a bit of reluctance. Jake helps him to his feet, steadies him as he sways. 

"You need to eat something," Jake says. "You've expended a hell of a lot of energy. Protein would be good, and a lot of it."

Malfoy nods. He looks delicate, like a small bird, those bright, sharp eyes taking everything about Jake in with one quick sweep.

"I do think you should find Harry," Jake says, and he can't believe he's saying this, but he just knows that Harry will ground Malfoy, keep him from spinning off into whatever dark place his mind's wanting to go. "We'll start up again tomorrow morning." Jake'd rather be spending his Saturday doing anything other than training Malfoy, and he suspects Malfoy feels the same. But they've neither of them a choice, do they? Fucking Graves. He glances down at the spot of blood on Malfoy's sleeve. "And get someone to look at that arm."

That, he's not so certain Malfoy will do, judging by the way his face shutters. 

Fuck it, Jake thinks. There's only so much he can do, and he's got his own shit to handle. He can't take on Malfoy as a pet project. Not any more than Graves is forcing him to, at least. 

Malfoy's stiff and slow as he walks out of Jake's office, his boots in his hands, and Jake drops back into his chair, weary and feeling more than a bit unsettled. 

Goddamn, but that kid's going to be a brilliant neuromancer. If he can get past himself. And that's the hard part, isn't it?

To be fucking honest, Jake's not certain he's managed it himself.

He leans back in his chair and sighs.

***

Hermione's looking a bit tired when Harry knocks at the door to her suite in the Millenium Hilton at five minutes before five. She's dressed casually but neatly in a fitted peach blouse and loose white trousers, her curly hair piled up on her head in a tight pouf and floral espadrille sandals with long ties wrapped around her slim, brown ankles.

She eyes him for a moment after letting him in. "Are you still angry with me?"

Harry shrugs, his hands in the pockets of his jeans. He thinks about sitting down, but they've only a few minutes until the Portkey activates. He's surprised that they're not having to go through the Chambers Street Portkey terminal the way he had this morning when he'd gone to Freddie in Paris, but he suspects Graves and Croaker pulled strings. Not to mention, both Governments are going to want this meeting to be quiet. Unrecorded, if possible, and that'll require a diplomatic Portkey with special permissions. Harry looks around, takes in that Hermione and Ron's sitting room is larger than his--either they splashed out on a better suite, or the Unspeakables gave her a nicer accommodation. Ron's right, Harry thinks. Hermione really is going to be Minister one day, Harry's sure of it.

"Not really," Harry says finally, meeting her gaze. "I'm more angry with the world in general these days. And myself, I suppose."

Hermione frowns at him a moment longer and then cracks. "Oh, Harold. You muppet."

She strides over to him, wrapping her arms around his neck. He leans in, letting her hold him, and for a moment, smelling the rose and jasmine of her perfume, the warm, spicy scent of her hair, he is at peace. Hermione makes him feel safe like few things in this world do, Draco Malfoy being one of the very few others. Although Malfoy's also dangerous in a way Harry finds far too exciting. He'd shown up in the incident room just before Harry'd left, looking like utter shite, and all he'd done was walk over to Harry in front of Whitaker and Zabini and just wrap his arms around Harry, press his face against Harry's chest, and breathe out. Harry'd held him tight for a moment or two or three, not giving a fuck what the others thought, just knowing that Malfoy had needed that right then. Whatever Jake'd done to him today--and Malfoy wouldn't talk about it, just shook his head when Harry asked--it'd shattered Malfoy a bit. Harry's fucking worried about him, and he wonders if he should even be going to this meeting in London. 

Not that he has a choice. When the Minister for Magic summons you, you fucking go. 

Hermione pushes Harry away after a moment, her hands on his chest. "You smell like Malfoy, you know. It was all over you this morning. Penhaligon, English Fern, I think."

Harry's eyebrows shoot up. "Well done. Can you really smell that over my scent too?" He's always been impressed by Hermione's ability to pick out aromas. It'd made her brilliant in potions class, whatever Snape might have said. Harry can barely figure out what toothpaste smells like on someone's breath half the time, and it's a bit hard to miss mint or cinnamon. He knows Hermione's perfume because he's helped Ron buy it before.

Hermione wrinkles her nose at him, looks a bit apologetic. "Yeah. You're spending rather a lot of time with him lately, aren't you?" The look she gives him is shrewd, and Harry thinks Ron must have told her that Malfoy's sharing his room. "The scent lasts in your clothes. If you ever want to be secret, actually, I'd recommend keeping fresh clothes in plastic. And possibly not rubbing yourself against him every chance you get?"

And Harry snorts at that. "Sorry. Not an option." At all, really. The thought of pressing himself against Malfoy's lanky body makes his own respond, a warm, tingling flush going across his skin. 

"You're literally the worst." Hermione shakes her head, but her face is fond. "I almost feel sorry for Malfoy."

"He hasn't complained yet." Harry can't believe he's talking to her about this, about Malfoy and their...whatever this is. He still isn't comfortable with thinking of Malfoy as his boyfriend, whatever Ron might think. He and Malfoy are different, Harry thinks. _More_ , part of his brain supplies, and Harry does his best to ignore it.

Hermione rolls her eyes upwards. "Why not, I can only imagine." She glances at her watch, a delicately woven gold band with a classic face sporting roman numerals. "We've two minutes." She holds out the empty bottle whose label he can now read--Lemon Barley Water--that she's been holding in her right hand. "Here, let's get into position."

"Yeah." Harry wraps an arm around her waist, and she around his. He touches the plastic with his left hand. He doesn't want to do this. He'd rather be having dinner with Malfoy, then taking him back up to their room. He sighs. "Ready."

Waiting for Portkeys is a pain in the arse--Harry doesn't know why, but the last moments before the transport make him jumpy. Probably because Harry hates the suddenness of it, the hook that catches deep in his belly and tugs sharply, surprising him even when he's expecting it. Harry focuses on the warmth of Hermione at his side, the gentle snores coming from the room next door that mean that Ron is already asleep. He'll regret that decision when he wakes up at three in the morning New York time. "Are we going straight to Kingsley?"

Hermione's pouf brushes his temple as she nods. It's only when she's up against him like this that he remembers how small she is. He always thinks of her as larger than life. "Yeah. Saul should be there, as well, and Gawain, and maybe Bertie Aubrey too. Not sure if he's deputised in everything yet, but he's been in meetings a lot this week with Gawain."

The bottle glows with a number counting down. Harry and Hermione both watch the seconds, five, four, three, two…

They land on plush purple-red carpet in the reception room outside of Kingsley's office, almost dead center on the Minister for Magic's seal woven into the carpet. Harry stumbles forward a little, letting Hermione catch up and pull him back. The ornamental Floo is dark at this hour and shadows hang heavy in the quiet room. Harry remembers welcoming Lotte on this very carpet less than a week ago. He'd thought at the time his days would be full of Luxembourg auditors and Azkaban investigations. How bloody wrong he'd been. It feels strange now to be back in London, to not see the MACUSA phoenix everywhere, to note the Union Jack standing draped in the corner of the room instead of the Stars and Stripes. 

Kingsley's door opens, and Harry hears the Minister before he sees him.

"Hermione. Harry. You made it. Please come in." Kingsley's in a simple white shirt with sleeves rolled up and deep purple trousers. His long feet are shod in a pair of monogrammed slippers, Harry notices as he gets closer. He clasps Kingsley's hand, letting himself be drawn into the room.

Saul Croaker is sitting on a low sofa at one end of the room. Chairs are drawn up around him; Gawain's in one, his face looking far more lined and hard-bitten than Harry remembers from a week ago. He feels a flash of irritation, remembering Malfoy's comment that Gawain had warned him off Harry, threatened his career if he didn't stay away. His mouth tightens, and Harry knows Gawain's noticed. Harry doesn't give a damn; he just glances away. Aubrey's in the corner, beside the sofa, and he raises a hand in greeting. He looks exhausted as well, but he gives Harry and Hermione a pleasant _hello._

Kingsley points them to the other chairs before sitting down beside Croaker. "So," he says grimly. "Things seem a bit more complicated in the States than we'd suspected."

"To say the least, sir." Harry settles back in his chair. "At the moment we have fairly solid evidence suggesting that Antonin Dolohov has a Hand of Glory, which he used to enter the Greenpoint Auror Detention Facility and remove two individuals before setting off a Morsmordre." 

Gawain swears, and even Kingsley's usual calm slips a bit. 

"Tom Graves thinks he's stirring up trouble with the extremist groups," Croaker says from the corner of the sofa. "I'm afraid our intelligence indicates the same. Yes, Granger?"

Hermione nods. "Dolohov's definitely infiltrated one wizarding supremacist group in the States. Harry's team has uncovered ties within the Russian wizarding community in Brooklyn as well."

"Not all of them are falling for his bullshit, though," Harry points out. "There's a good deal of pushback against him from inside the community, it seems."

Kingsley's silent for a long moment. "The Americans are suggesting there are financial ties to England, supporting these groups. Are they blowing smoke up our arses on that one?"

Harry and Hermione exchange a look. Please, Harry thinks, don't bring up Lucius Malfoy. Not right now. 

"It's a credible supposition," Hermione says after a moment. "But I'd want us to do our own investigation. Verify their results ourselves."

Croaker nods. "I'll authorise that immediately." 

"To play the devil's advocate," Gawain says, leaning forward, "what exactly are our responsibilities when it comes to the Americans? They've twice our resources, and I'm stretched thin as it is on manpower. Having an entire Auror team in the States, particularly one as good as Harry's…" Gawain holds his hands up. "Why not request the Americans give us an extradition when Dolohov's caught, and bring our team back home?"

Kingsley nods, stroking his chin. "Harry?"

Harry doesn't answer at first. He shifts in his chair, considering, before he says, "We could. But I'd like to ask that my team be given more time. We're onto something here, Gawain, and I think it's deeper and much more complex than Antonin Dolohov." He hesitates, chews his lip. "Draco Malfoy's Mark activated last night," he says finally. "And roughly ten days ago my Horcrux scar flared."

The room's silent.

"Harry," Hermione says after a moment, her eyes wide. She looks hurt and terrified. "You didn't say--"

"I didn't want to worry anyone," Harry says, reaching for her hand. "I hoped it was a bad dream, a headache, something other than what it felt like. But now…" Harry lets her fingers slip from his. "My scar hurt. The way it used to, back during the War."

"You ought to have told me," Hermione says. "The moment it happened--"

"I couldn't," Harry says, and she looks away, biting her lip. Harry glances at Kingsley, meeting his gaze. "But I'm reporting it now." The Minister frowns, leans forward, his elbows on his knees. 

"Voldemort?" Kingsley asks. 

Harry shrugs. "I don't know. I can tell you that my scar hasn't hurt since the Battle of Hogwarts. And Malfoy's Mark has been inactive since then. It went off at the same time as the Morsmordre, as far as we can tell." He pauses. "Or so Malfoy reports." There's no goddamn way he's going to tell any of these men that he was there when it happened, that he held Malfoy as he writhed and sobbed on the floor, overcome by the pain. 

It'd almost been as bad as watching Malfoy go through the Cruciatus Curse.

Gawain looks troubled; Bertie Aubrey even more so. 

"How is the lad?" Aubrey asks, a deep frown creasing his face. 

Harry hesitates, then answers truthfully. "Not well." He lets his gaze drift over to Gawain, his eyes narrowing. "He's undergoing Legilimency training. First session was today." He's furious with Gawain, he realises, and it's all over Malfoy. 

Kingsley nods. "All things considered, that seems wise."

Aubrey doesn't look convinced. Neither is Harry, to be honest, and he realises the two of them are Malfoy's best advocates in this room. 

Kingsley stands up, walks over to the window behind his desk, looks out across the Atrium below. He's silent, his shoulders bent, and then he sighs. "Voldemort's dead."

"We've thought that before," Croaker says. He looks at Harry. "Your scar's only hurt once?" 

Harry doesn't like the way Croaker's examining him. "I'm not about to turn into Voldemort. Sir."

Croaker's smile is quick but feral. "Never would suggest it, boy."

It's exactly what he's thinking, and the whole damn room knows it. 

Kingsley turns around. "Ernest Hawkworth and Griselda Marchbanks are still spearheading the charge for Death Eater Registry," he says. "It's getting harder and harder to keep them back, and this information, once it hits the _Prophet_ \--"

"And it will," Croaker says, his voice sour. "No way to hide a sodding Morsmordre and Dolohov bloody well knows it."

"Well." Kingsley runs a hand over his smooth, bronze-brown head. "It's going to ignite a goddamned panic is what it's going to do. And even with all my stressing democracy over restrictions…" He sighs. "This isn't going to help. Not on top of the Luxembourg investigation." He glances over at Harry. "They're pushing for Albert to step down."

Harry'd wondered why Proudfoot wasn't here in the meeting. That'd make sense, though, if he's under scrutiny. And Proudfoot would be, as head of the DMLE. Someone's going to have to go down, and Harry's pretty damned certain Gawain and Croaker'll make sure Albert goes before them. 

"And Peasegood?" Harry glances over at Gawain. "Have we located him yet?"

Gawain and Aubrey look at each other, then Aubrey scratches the back of his neck. "Found him yesterday," he says, and he frowns over at Harry. "Floating in the River Wye near Llangurig."

Harry stills. "Suicide?"

"Don't know yet." Aubrey's bushy eyebrows draw together. "Jonesey's still working on it." He pulls a handkerchief out of his back pocket and coughs into it. "Belinda's destroyed," he says after a moment. "Poor cow. But what else could he have done, yeah? Bastard knew we'd find him eventually."

Shit, Harry thinks. This isn't what he'd expected. 

Kingsley walks back to the sofa, sits down with a heavy sigh. "Harry, I'm keeping your team in the States for now." He looks over at Gawain. "I know you're short-handed, but this is national security."

Gawain shrugs. "We'll work with it." 

"Saul," Kingsley says, "can you spare Granger for a bit?" 

Croaker leans forward, his eyes bright. "I've already assigned her to the case." 

"Good." Kingsley rubs at his face. "We'll go on as we've intended, but I want Harry and Hermione reporting to me directly as well. All communication stays within this group until further notice. Nothing even to support staff. It's eyes-only, yes?"

They all nod, and Kingsley stands up. 

"Out of my office then," Kingsley says. "I've a statement to draft before the goddamned _Prophet_ starts haranguing me about that sodding Morsmordre." He looks disgusted. "Fucking Dolohov."

Frankly, Harry thinks as he pushes himself out of his chair, he shares the damned sentiment.

***

Blaise watches Jake from the door of his office. He looks wrecked, Blaise thinks, but Draco'd been worse when he'd come into the incident room forty minutes ago and wrapped himself around Potter. Blaise isn't entirely certain Draco'd even noticed he and Althea were in the room at first, and that worries him.

And makes him viciously jealous, if he's honest. Blaise has been the one Draco's turned to over the years, he's been the one to comfort Draco when he's wounded and broken. Blaise doesn't really know how he feels about Draco coming to the guv first. But he'd watched Potter smoothe Draco's hair back from his face, whisper into Draco's ear, and he'd seen the way Draco had relaxed, how his face had softened, the tension slipping away. 

Blaise can't be angry with the guv for that.

It only takes a moment for Jake to realise Blaise is there. He looks up, and he gives him a wan smile. "Hey, you."

"Hey." Blaise leans against the door jamb. "You look like you've had a rough day of it."

"Should have seen the other guy," Jake says.

"I have." Blaise's voice is quiet, and Jake glances away. Blaise finds it odd how he can read Jake Durant after such a short time of knowing him. That expression means Jake's feeling guilty about something. Probably pushing Draco so hard, and Blaise wants to tell him that if Draco hadn't wanted to be pushed to the point of exhaustion, he'd have fucking let Jake know. 

Jake sets his papers aside and sighs. "Sorry."

Blaise just shrugs. "He's fine." That's not entirely true. Draco'd left after Potter had, and he'd still looked shattered. Althea had gone after him, telling Blaise to let her talk to him, but she'd just come back in a few minutes later, shaking her head. Draco'd wanted to be left alone, probably to lick his wounds, and Blaise knows better than to push when Draco's like that. 

From the look Jake gives Blaise, he doesn't believe him.

"Look," Blaise says. "You need a drink. That much I can tell, so let me buy you one."

He thinks Jake's going to say no, and Jake does hesitate, but he just looks at Blaise, then says, "What the hell," and stands up. 

They go down the street to Tabac, a narrow, dimly lit bar. 

"A bit posh for my tastes," Jake says as he holds the door open for Blaise, "but you'll like it." And he's not wrong, Blaise thinks, taking in the long, dark wood bar, the brass lamps hanging over the tables, the heavily framed mirrors that run the length of the bar itself, making the space feel wider than it is. 

They find seats at the bar itself, and Jake orders a bourbon, double, then glances at Blaise. He really wants a glass of white wine, but that doesn't seem strong enough for the kind of drinking Jake seems to want to do, so he asks for a Hendricks gin and tonic with cucumber instead. 

Blaise sits, watching the barman pour their drinks. Jake's hunched over the bar, his grim face reflected in the mirror. Neither of them say anything until the drinks are in front of them. Jake downs almost half of his in one swallow, then sets the glass down with a sigh. 

"Malfoy talked to you?"

"Not really." Blaise runs a finger around the rim of his glass. "But he looked like shite when he walked in, so I figured I ought to check in on you as well." Blaise gives Jake a sideways look. "Was I wrong?"

"Probably not." Jake watches Blaise in the mirror. "Today's been shit all around."

Blaise nods. He can't believe it's not even been twenty-four hours since the guv had pulled them all out of bed in the middle of the night. Fuck, he's barely seen Pans except in passing, and that was only to congratulate her on the Hand of Glory call. He doesn't know if he's supposed to share that with Jake, so he doesn't. Better safe than having to face Potter down when he's in a temper. Less chance of getting singed that way. Blaise picks up his drink. The pour of gin's a touch heavier than he'd have liked, but the floral bitterness against his tongue is bracing. "How's your brother doing?"

Jake hesitates. "The same." He cups his hands around his bourbon. "I'm going to Bonavista tonight. See if my being there'll shake anything up." He laughs, and it's not a happy sound. "Jesus, Eddie's a goddamned fucker."

At least you have a brother, Blaise wants to say, but he doesn't. Maybe that's why he and Draco grew so close over the years. They'd both been lonely onlys. In a way, Draco might as well be his brother, Blaise thinks. With all the good and the bad that entails. 

Instead Blaise just looks over at Jake and asks, "How did you two end up on opposite sides of the Auror desk?"

Jake picks up his bourbon and takes a sip, staring into it for a moment. "Mostly has to do with my dad. The alpha goddamned fucker." He shakes his head, sets his glass down. "He's in Oudepoort." 

"You've said." Blaise is curious about that. He wonders sometimes if Draco and Jake really see how similar they are, both of them with shit fathers who've been in prison. He'll be damned if he'll be the one to point that out. It does make him wonder about the guv, though. 

What it might mean about himself, well. That's something Blaise won't be looking at too closely either. He toys with a slice of cucumber.

Jake eyes him. "You're too damned polite, Zabini. Most people want to know what he did."

Blaise shrugs. "If you want to say, you will. It's none of my business." He takes a sip of gin and tonic. "You learn not to ask questions when you're friends with Draco Malfoy."

"I can imagine." Jake twists his glass between his hands. "I saw some of his past today." He lifts his bourbon to his mouth. "Christ, what that bastard went through in his own fucking house."

That makes Blaise still. He looks over at Jake. "He let you see that?" Another sharp sting of jealousy goes through Blaise. They don't talk about that year, he and Draco and Pansy. Draco just shuts down whenever it's brought up, says bluntly that they can all fuck off if they're going to keep pressing him about it. Blaise knows it was bad, knows some of the milder things, the memories that Draco will talk about. 

Not the ones that wake him up in the middle of the night screaming and shaking and sobbing, fingers clawing at the sheets and sometimes himself. Those have faded mostly, or so Blaise thinks. When Draco lived with Pansy in Camden, though, the nightmares had been two or three times a week, and Pans would come into training exhausted and quiet, with a shattered-looking Draco by her side. Honestly, Blaise thinks that's one of the reasons Draco had moved out. He'd felt terrible about waking her up with his terrors.

"Seeing them wasn't intentional," Jake says. He drains his glass and sets it down. "His Occlumens slipped." He looks at Blaise's reflection in the mirror above the bar. "He's powerful, you know."

Blaise isn't surprised. 

Jake motions to the barman for another bourbon. "Christ, but I wish hadn't seen some of that." He turns towards Blaise. "Be easier to just dislike the goddamn bastard on general principle."

"Draco's not to blame for Potter," Blaise says. Jake's knee brushes Blaise's thigh, and a jolt goes through Blaise. He grips his glass tighter, watches as the barman puts another bourbon in front of Jake. 

"Feelings aren't always logical," Jake says, reaching for the glass. He smells like bourbon and musky sweat, and Blaise can't help the image of himself beneath those strong shoulders, his legs wrapped around Jake's narrow hips as they thrust together. It takes his breath away, sharp and quick. Jake glances at him. "Stop that."

Blaise's face heats, but he doesn't look away from Jake. "Stop what?" He lets the image shift, change, into Blaise over Jake, looking down at Jake's flushed face as he lowers himself down onto Jake's prick. 

And then he feels a movement in his mind, a gentle whisper as the image shifts focus, from Jake to him as he takes all of Jake's cock in, his head thrown back, his chest slick and shuddering. 

Blaise isn't certain he's not going to come right there in his fucking trousers. He's surprised his glass hasn't broken in his hand, he's gripping it so tightly.

"That," Jake says, calmly, looking away as he lifts his bourbon to his mouth, and then the image's gone, and Blaise slumps forward, his elbows holding him up against the bar. "Don't be a son of a bitch, Blaise. Not today."

To be bloody honest, Blaise is pretty fucking sure it's not him being the goddamned son of a bitch. 

His hand shakes as he raises his gin and tonic to his mouth, takes a generous sip, then chews on a slice of cucumber. He needs something to distract him.

Jake's silent for a moment, then he says, "My asshole of a daddy killed a man. That's why he's in Oudepoort." He doesn't look back over at Blaise. His finger circles the inside of his glass; he pulls it out and sucks the bourbon off it. "I was eight. Don't know much about it; Mama never would talk about it." He glances at Blaise from the corner of his eye. "All Eddie says about it is that Daddy never should have trusted an Englishman." He shakes his head. "I think Eddie always held it against Harry that he was British. Even though Eddie liked the fucker."

Blaise quirks an eyebrow. "You don't share your brother's prejudice."

The smile that Jake gives him is hot and bright. "I'm more like my daddy than I'd like to admit."

And that admission intrigues Blaise. He thinks Jake's probably right about the likeness. Jake Durant's no goddamned angel, and Blaise suspects he's done some shit he's not proud of. "I think I like that about you," Blaise says after a moment. 

Jake shakes his head. "You shouldn't."

Maybe not. But Blaise hasn't always done the things that he should. "How'd your father kill the man?"

"Hex gone wrong, I think." Jake picks up his glass of bourbon and studies it. "Never much cared to find out more than that."

And that's a goddamned lie, Blaise thinks. He's absolutely certain of that; he doesn't even have to be a Legilimens to figure that out. Still, if that's the way Jake wants to play it, Blaise isn't going to push. He leans against the bar, studying Jake's face in the mirror as Jake looks down into his glass. Jake lifts it to his mouth and takes a drink, leaving only a swallow left. 

"So your brother," Blaise says. "Takes after your father too?"

"More so," Jake says. "At least visibly." He sets his glass down. "Eddie spent too much time with my daddy's family. That's what Mama and my Aunt Eula always said. Least when Eddie started to get into trouble with the Baton Rogue Aurors. Mostly stupid stuff. Selling restricted potions, that sort of thing. My daddy's family tended to live a bit on the grey side of the law, shall we say?" He looks over at Blaise. "Mama's parents were horrified when she took up with Jasper Durant. My paternal granddaddy was the town drunk, mostly, and he made his money selling hexes and curses, sometimes even to the No-Majs around Thibodaux."

Blaise raises his eyebrow in surprise. "Isn't that illegal?"

Jake just snorts. "The Durants didn't really give a fuck about legalities," he says. "Besides, Rapparport's fucking Law or not, there'd been plenty of intermarriages in Thibodaux. Even the No-Majs knew who to go to when they wanted a potion or a hex. I mean, for fuck's sake, you go to New Orleans and they still talk about the great Marie Laveau. MACUSA never could stop that sort of thing in the smaller communities."

"Yeah." Blaise thinks that makes sense. The States are enormous, he's starting to realise. He supposes he's always known it, but it's different when you're on this side of the Atlantic. It's hard enough to police New York. He doesn't know how the fuck they'd monitor every magical community across the country, especially with some of the restrictions on surveillance that have been frustrating the British team. He drains his gin and tonic, raises his glass for another. The barman nods and reaches for the bottle of gin. 

Blaise shifts, turning towards Jake again. He loves the thrill that goes through him when his knee brushes against Jake's. He feels like he's fucking thirteen again, the first swirl of Veela hormones going through him. Circe, the Slytherin common room had been a nightmare for him at first. Blaise had lost count of the number of inappropriate erections he'd had. 

"So how'd you end up an Auror," Blaise asks, "if you come from such criminal stock?" The barman sets his drink in front of him.

Jake laughs, and it's genuine. "Oh, I did some time in the holding cells myself." He eyes Blaise. "Nearly drove my poor Aunt Eula crazy after my mama died. I got into every kind of trouble I could; the Durant genes held true. Aunt Eula used to come into the Shreveport Auror precinct every weekend to bail me out of the drunk tank when I was sixteen. Nearly got myself kicked out of Josephine de Beauharnais before I graduated. And then I got caught selling off potions for Eddie. Did four months in Pignerol down in Baton Rouge the summer I got out of school, and got scared straight. One of the guards told me I ought to look into the Hit Wizards when I got out. I did, and…" He shrugs. "Found out I had a talent for law enforcement." He turns on his stool; his calf brushes Blaise's. "What about you? Auror's kind of an odd choice for a posh boy like you."

"Not a lot of jobs for Slytherins after the War," Blaise admits. "But Robards came to Hogwarts our eighth year. Suggested Draco, Pans and I might be interested. We were." He hesitates, takes a sip of his gin and tonic. The balance is better on this one, or maybe he needs the alcohol for this conversation. "Mother was outraged."

Jake's eyebrow goes up. "Not a proper job for her baby boy?"

"My father was an Auror," Blaise says, and it's something he's never told anyone outside of Pansy and Draco. "He died in the line of duty when I was a toddler. I don't remember much about him. A laugh. Big fingers." Blaise looks down at this own. His mother's always told him he has his father's hands. "Something bad happened; his partner wasn't nearby? I don't know, really. Mother doesn't talk about it." He gives Jake a faint smile. "Sounds like she would have been friends with yours."

"Probably." Jake touches Blaise's hand for just a moment, and something warm twists and flares inside of Blaise before Jake pulls his hand away. "I'm sorry."

Blaise just shrugs. "Like I said, I don't really remember him."

"You ever think about looking up his record?" Jake asks. "I mean, if he was an Auror. British, yeah?"

"I tried once," Blaise admits. His hands curl around his gin and tonic, his thumbs stroking along the glass. "The file was restricted, and Robards called me into his office. Reamed me but good." He gives Jake a wry smile. "After that I didn't dare again. Besides, like I said, I didn't know him. It's more the idea of him that interested me."

He doesn't tell Jake that he's always felt a bit at a loss without a father. His mother's string of husbands had been a blur, for the most part, with the exception of one. Andrew Curtiss. Andy'd been a good sort, and Blaise thought Andy might have been someone his mother had actually loved. Or could have loved. Blaise had adored him during the three years he'd been married to Olivia and had even started calling him Dad. 

Andy'd died when Blaise was nine. Dropped from a heart attack; he'd only been forty-eight. Blaise doesn't think he or his mother have ever really gotten over that. He's never even told his mother that Andy'd been the closest thing to a father Blaise has ever had; he doesn't want to see that grief cross her face again. 

Jake's just watching him, and Blaise wonders how much Jake's sensing. He doesn't really care, and that surprises him. 

"Look at the two of us," Jake says after a moment, and he nods towards their reflections in the mirror. "Fucked up by our parents."

"Isn't that what they're supposed to do?" Blaise lets a sardonic smile twist his mouth. "'They fuck you up, your mum and dad. They may not mean to, but they do. They fill you with the faults they had, and add some extra just for you.'"

Jake gives him a curious look. "Philip Larkin? From the mouth of a British pureblood?" The smile he turns Blaise's way is sharp and thoughtful.

Blaise just raises one shoulder in a shrug and takes a drink. "I'm a man of complexities, Jake Durant." 

"That you are." Jake's gazing at him, and there's something about it that makes Blaise's heart skip. Jake reaches over, lets his fingertips brush across Blaise's cheek, along his jaw, turning Blaise's face towards him. "I find you ridiculously intriguing, Blaise Zabini," he murmurs. "Even though I damn well shouldn't."

When Jake's mouth captures Blaise's, Blaise's breath stutters. Jake's palm is warm against Blaise's cheek, and the kiss is gentle. Bittersweet. Jake tastes like bourbon and coffee, and his lips are soft and careful, his tongue swiping once against Blaise's teeth before he pulls back, leaving Blaise desperate for more. 

"I have to go," Jake says, and the words are warm against Blaise's mouth. "My brother…"

Blaise just nods, but he knows it's more than that. Jake wants Blaise, and that terrifies Jake. Blaise can tell. He lets his thigh press against Jake's. "Go then."

But Jake doesn't move. He's next to Blaise, his cheek so close that Blaise can feel the soft warmth of Jake's breath against his ear. "Blaise," Jake whispers, and Blaise's name is a caress that sends shivers down Blaise's spine, makes his prick swell. He turns his head, and his lips meet the corner of Jake's mouth. 

Jake inhales, a quick, soft gasp. 

"Go," Blaise says again, and this time he pulls back. There's a flush across Jake's cheeks, and Blaise doesn't have to look down to know Jake's cock is swelling against his trousers. He can feel how much Jake wants him, and Blaise knows he could tug just the slightest bit, and Jake would go back to his room with him, let Blaise spread himself wide for him. 

But Blaise wants more than one night. More than one brilliant roll across the rumpled sheets of his bed. 

Jake looks away, flustered. He reaches in his pocket, fumbles for his wallet. Blaise puts his hand on Jake's wrist. "I'll settle," he says. "I told you I'd buy you a drink, remember?"

"Yeah." There's a flutter in Jake's jaw. He slides off the stool, his hips turned away from Blaise. "Thanks." His voice is low. Unsteady. "See you later, then?"

Blaise lifts his drink. "To later, Jacob Durant."

Jake looks up at him then. "Later." He leans in and he slides an arm around Blaise's shoulder, pulling him into another kiss, rough and sweet and quick. "You'll be the fucking death of me, Zabini," he says against Blaise's mouth, and then he's gone, leaving Blaise shaken and breathless. 

Blaise presses his fingertips against his mouth and exhales.

He drains his glass and motions for another one. Circe, but he needs to get pissed tonight. 

Even if it's all alone.

***

Draco's curled on the sofa in the hotel room, staring blankly out the window. He's out of sorts, and he knows it. He'd told Althea flatly to fuck off when she'd come after him, and he's glad she hadn't sent Blaise to his room.

Or Pansy. That'd be bloody worse. 

Draco wants to be alone. He feels as if his skin doesn't fit properly, all hot and tight and prickly, and he knows he's not fit company for anyone. Part of him thinks he should just grab pyjamas and go sleep in his old room, but he's afraid that'll just make it all worse. 

He'd gone to Potter when Durant had told him to leave, and pressing himself up against Potter's body had staved off the roiling tension that was building up in him. 

Merlin, Draco doesn't want to think about those memories. He's kept them pushed away, never told anyone else, pretended that they never happened. He'd thought he was well done with them, over it, strong enough not to be brought to his knees, retching over Jake bloody Durant's rug. 

He pushes up his sleeve. The Mark's finally stopped seeping blood; thick black scabs are crusting over his scars, raw, ragged outlines of a skull and serpent, the edges pink and swollen. 

Draco closes his eyes and breathes out. He feels numb deep inside. Empty. Almost as if something's ripped through him, spilling him open, pulling things he'd thought well-hidden out into the light, his weak mind laying them out for the last person in the world he'd like to see. 

And that kiss. Draco can't help but feel it, relive the sensation of Jake Durant's body pressing against Potter's, wanting Potter, missing Potter.

With a raw cry, Draco grabs a glass from the coffee table next to him and throws it across the room, falling back against the sofa cushions as it crashes into the wall, shattering in shimmering shards. 

He doesn't feel any better. 

Draco pushes himself off the sofa, flicks his wand at the broken glass and sweeps it all up and onto the coffee table. He stares down at it, trying to gather up the will to transfigure it back together. He just can't give a fuck at the moment, if he's honest. There's part of him that wants to swish his wand across the whole room, leaving a path of imploded cushions and deep scars in the walls in his wake, a part of him that wants to destroy everything around him. He grips the hilt of his wand tightly, breathes out. 

Everything feels too tight, too hot, too _everything_. Draco picks up a large fragment of glass and studies it, watching the light from the lamp glint across its curved surface. He thinks about stabbing it into his left forearm, dragging it over the aching Mark to carve it up the way he had before with spells, trying everything he could to eradicate those goddamned bastards from his mind, his body. 

A deep shudder wracks his shoulders, and his fingers clench around the glass, an edge of it slicing through his palm. Blood wells up in the cut, dark crimson against his pale skin. 

Draco watches it, lets it slip over his fingers, trickle across the glass. 

He still feels numb.

And to make matters worse, as he's standing there, Potter's keycard sounds against the lock and the door opens. Draco lets the bloodied glass fall to the coffee table. 

Potter looks almost as wrecked as Draco feels. He stops in the doorway, silhouetted by the light from the hall, his face shadowed. "Malfoy. What's going on? Are you hurt?"

Draco knows that Potter is concerned about him, knows that he's just asking a question, but somehow all of his fury and his anger swell into his heart. "I don't know, Potter. Why should I be hurt? After all, I was summoned by dark magic and then subjected to the power of your best friend and your ex-boyfriend--who, by the way, was kind enough to show me his side of that kiss of yours." Draco is waspish and cold, he knows it. He's lashing out and he can't stop. Something in him wants to rip everything in the world into pieces, starting right here, right now. "How you leaned in so prettily, how you _wanted_ him to kiss you--God, you really are a slag, aren't you?"

Something sharp twists across Potter's face, and Draco know that should be a warning to him. He doesn't care. This? This he can shout about, can throw a strop over. Not like the other feelings welling up inside of him, sending shock waves of old fear through him. Draco takes a step towards Potter. "Maybe you should fuck him, Potter. It's what he wants, after all. You too. Think about it. You beneath him again--

And then Potter's there, pushing him back against the window ledge, and the lights in the room flicker. Draco shivers with the raw power of it, and suddenly his fear shifts, turns its head towards Potter. Draco wants to tell Potter it's a mistake, that he doesn't mean it, but Potter is in the storm of his own feelings now. Potter's jaw is working and it takes a moment for him to get the sound out. 

"You goddamned fucker," Potter says. "You have no fucking idea--" His eyes are bright and hot and angry, and for a moment, Draco thinks Potter's going to kiss him, and he wants him to, whilst, at the same time, Draco's turning his head away. 

"Don't fucking touch me," Draco says, and his voice trembles. 

Potter steps back. "As if I'd want to right now." He spits the words out, and they sting, more so than the cut on Draco's palm. He crosses over to the minibar, not looking at Draco, and grabs one of the stupidly overpriced bottles of American whisky, rips off the foil cap, and downs it in one swallow.

"Because getting pissed, yes, that's what Harry Potter does best, isn't it?" Draco's mouth twists, and he knows he's being a prick, but he can't stop himself. He wants to claw at something, wants someone else to hurt as badly as he does. 

"Fuck off, you arsehole." Potter turns towards him. "What the _fuck_ is wrong with you? So I kissed Jake. I already fucking told you about it, and if you're going to trust his memory of events, then you're more of an idiot than I already thought you--"

Draco feels as if he's been slapped. "Idiot. Me? This coming from the man who can't stand up to anyone? Lets his ex beg for a kiss, then gives it to him. Sends his lover off to work with his sodding best mate because she demands it--"

"I told you I argued for you." Potter's voice rises. The lights flicker again. 

"You don't want me!" When the words are out, Draco realises that's what he's afraid of. After everything between them. That Potter's going to see who Draco really is, this shuddering, useless beast of a man, broken and battered and bruised by his life, and he's going to walk away. Like everyone else. 

Nicholas had been right. Draco wasn't worth anything. Anyone. 

Potter's looking at him, his face stony and cold. "You're making it fucking hard to right now." 

And there it is. "I'll just leave then."

Draco pushes past Potter, puts his hand on the door when Potter throws a parchment at him. It hits Draco's shoulder, falls to his feet. 

"That's what you've been wanting to do anyway, isn't it?" Potter's not looking as Draco stoops down and picks the paper up. "From the fucking beginning."

It's his transfer documents. Draco's hand trembles as he unfolds them. There's his signature. The date. He looks up at Potter, and a shiver of cold rage goes through him. "You went through my post. How fucking dare you--"

"I was looking at a fucking Quidditch catalog whilst you were packing," Potter says. "It fell out." He glances at Draco. His mouth's a tight, thin line. "That date. It's when you became sergeant. When you showed up at my door and begged me to fuck you like a _whore_." Something crumples inside Draco. Potter takes a step towards him. "And all the time you were planning to walk away from _me._ "

"I was trying to do the right thing," Draco snaps. 

"You _never_ do the right thing, Malfoy." Potter's shouting now. "You never fucking have!" The transfer documents burst into flame. Draco drops them onto the floor, stomps them out. There's a scorch mark on the rug. "You always do what's easiest for you, what most convenient. Never what's right--"

"Because you're the paragon of virtue, are you, Potter?" Draco spits out. He pulls two buttons open at the top of his shirt, jerking it aside so the bit of the Sectumsempra scar just beneath his collarbone shows. "I'm proof of that, aren't I? You Marked me yourself, you bastard, just as clearly as the Dark Lord did, and I've had to live with that ever since, had to see every day how you maimed me--

Potter pushes Draco up against the door. "You're _mine._ "

"I'm not." Draco's breathing hard, and Potter's so close. Too close. But Draco won't turn his head away, won't give Potter the satisfaction of being submissive to him. Not right now. Not like this. "I'm no one's, Potter. Not yours. Not the Dark Lord's. Not my uncle's--" His voice breaks, and he sees a flicker of confusion cross Potter's face. The rage twists in his belly, coiling tighter, harder. "Fuck you all," Draco says, and he knows he's about to cry. He won't. He can't be that weak in front of Potter. 

"Malfoy," Potter says, and he catches Draco's wrists, presses them back against the door, holds Draco still. "Stop."

And Draco's young again, and he's frightened, and he twists aside. "Get your filthy hands off me."

Potter steps back, and Draco's out the door, half-running down the hall, his body shaking, hot tears starting to slide down his face. He wipes them away angrily with the ball of his uninjured hand, cursing himself for being a fucking fool. 

His room's empty. Bare. Pristinely neat. Draco lets the door fall shut behind him, and he drops onto the bed, curling himself around a pillow. His whole body shakes, and all he can feel is a harsh, surging anger that makes him bury his face against the crisp pillowcase, a scream ripping out of him, muffled by the down. 

His cut hand leaves blood smeared across the white linen.

There's a knock on his door. Draco ignores it. Potter will go away. They all do.

Potter doesn't. 

"Malfoy," Potter says from the other side of the door. "Let me in."

Draco stays silent. Still. He doesn't know what he wants, whether he needs Potter here with him or a thousand miles away. 

"Malfoy." 

"Fuck off," Draco says, but it's a raw whisper into the pillow. 

There's a click and a thunk as an unlocking spell opens the door, and Draco keeps his back stiff, turned away. He stares out the window at the building across the street, the lights in its offices small golden rectangles against the dusky sky. 

When Potter sits on the edge of the bed, the mattress dips. Potter touches Draco's hip, and Draco flinches.

"Don't," Draco says, and Potter's hand disappears. Draco misses its warmth immediately. 

Potter's quiet for a long moment. "I'm sorry," he says after a moment. 

Draco doesn't reply. He just breathes out into the pillow, wrapping his arms tighter around it. He feels frightened. Uneasy. 

They're both silent. 

"Do you want me to go?" Potter asks finally. 

Draco nods, and he feels the bed shift as Potter stands up. Potter's just opened the door when Draco says, "No."

Potter hesitates, then he asks, "No, you don't want me to go?"

"No." Draco digs his fingers into the pillow. "I don't want you to go."

"All right." Potter lets the door shut again, and then he comes back to the bed. "Can I lie down with you?"

Draco chews his lip, his face still pressed against the pillowcase, then he says, "Whatever."

Potter curls up behind Draco, smoothes Draco's hair back, wraps his arm around Draco's waist. They lie curled against each other for what seems like ages, before Potter asks, "How's your hand?"

"It's fine." Draco turns his palm over, looks at the jagged cut. It's mostly stopped bleeding. A healing charm will finish it off, seal the flesh back again; the glass hadn't gone deep. 

"Do you want to talk?" Potter asks.

Not really, Draco thinks, but he exhales, squeezes his eyes shut for a moment. 

"Malfoy." Potter's voice is gentle. 

Draco shifts beneath Potter's arm, rolls to face him. Potter just watches him, then he reaches out and slides a thumb beneath Draco's damp eyes. 

"This isn't just Jake," Potter says, and Draco shakes his head. 

Potter waits, his green eyes studying Draco behind those stupid smudged glasses of his. 

"I don't know why you don't use a vision charm," Draco says after a moment, and Potter gives him a faint smile. 

"Just to annoy you," Potter says. 

Draco half-laughs, half-sobs. "Obviously." He reaches out and touches Potter's face. "You're an arsehole." 

"Absolutely." Potter kisses Draco's knuckles, and Draco sighs, letting his hand drop. 

Draco rolls onto his back, lifts his left forearm, unbuttoning his cuff, and rolling the sleeve back to his elbow. He turns back to Potter and holds his arm out, letting the Mark show in all of its mangled, destructive glory. 

"Jesus," Potter says, and he sits up, his fingers curling around Draco's thin wrist. "It's worse."

"Better than this afternoon." Draco shrugs. He looks at it dispassionately. "It hurts." 

"I'm sorry," Potter says again. 

Draco nods. 

"I'll take you to a Healer," Potter says. He starts to move, and Draco stops him. 

"What are they going to do, Potter?" Draco rolls towards Potter, breathes in the scent of him. "They've never encountered something like this." His mouth twists bitterly. "There aren't that many of us. Not ones they want to keep alive, at any rate."

Potter just pulls him close, presses his face against Draco's hair. They lie together, wrapped around each other, and somewhere deep inside Draco knows that Potter's safe. That Potter won't walk away. 

Even when Draco tells him to. 

He draws in an unsteady breath. "Your ex-boyfriend also forced me to face some very, very dark years of my existence." When Potter tenses against him, Draco presses a hand against Potter's chest, settling him. "It was an accident. It's something that happens when you're just learning."

"I know," Potter whispers against Draco's skin. "That happened to me too in training. It's why I never went further with Legilimency." His wry snort is soft in Draco's ear. "Not that I was any good with it anyway. But it was too damned much." His fingers card through Draco's hair, pushing it back from Draco's forehead. "What did you see?"

"Things," Draco says after a moment. "From that year the Manor was taken over."

Potter just smoothes his thumb over Draco's temple. Waits for whatever Draco's going to say next. 

Draco folds the white cotton of Potter's dress shirt between his fingertips, worries the buttons. It feels so surreal, lying here with Potter beside him. His anger's seeping away, leaving him tired and frightened. Circe, but he thought he'd gone through all this already, put it behind him. Made his peace. 

"My Uncle Rodolphus," Draco says finally, "is a cruel bastard. He's the one who brought my father into the Death Eater fold, you know. Back when they were younger. Aunt Bella, too, although rumour had it she'd been fucking Tom Riddle before he decided to title himself." He looks over at Potter. "I heard Uncle Roddy gave her to the Dark Lord. Wasn't her choice at first, but supposedly she liked it well enough to continue. At least that's what the other wives used to gossip about. Not that Uncle Roddy wasn't shagging about himself. Everyone was. The Dark Lord liked it that way. Kept the inner circle unstable enough for him to control. That's what Severus always said." 

He hesitates, expecting Potter to say something, to make a face at his mention of Snape. He doesn't, to Draco's surprise. He just watches Draco. Listens. 

Draco draws in a slow breath. "Only Father didn't. He was too in love with Mother, Severus said." Draco'd thought there'd been a tinge of bitterness in Severus's voice when he'd told Draco that; Draco suspects that his Head of House fancied Draco's father for years. Not that it would have mattered. "Think what you will about my bastard of a father," Draco says, "but he's always been mad about Mother." Draco's always wanted someone to look at him that way, to touch his face the way his father had touched his mother's. Even when he'd started drinking, Lucius had been gentle with Narcissa. 

Until he wasn't. 

Potter tucks Draco's hair behind his ear. "And today?" he murmurs. "You saw your uncle?"

Draco's throat tightens, hurts. He nods. Potter just looks at him. 

"My uncle," Draco says after a long silence, "threatened to fuck me when I was seventeen." Draco feels Potter still beside him. He turns his head, away from Potter. "Not because he wanted me, but because he wanted to humiliate Father. And me as well, I suppose." He watches as light goes out in the window of the building across the street. 

"That's fucked up." Potter's voice sounds tight. Angry. Draco looks back over at him. Potter's face is twisted in disgust, and Draco tries not to flinch away. 

"Imagine," Draco says as lightly as he can, "that particular memory coming up whilst you're mentally sparring with your lover's ex who loathes you--"

"He doesn't," Potter says. "He hates me, not you. He wouldn't be working with you if he did."

Draco thinks Potter's bloody delusional. It's obvious that Durant still wants Potter. Still thinks of him. Draco can't entirely blame him. He doesn't think he could get over Potter that easily himself. "Well," Draco says after a moment. "I had to relieve that delightful bit of my past today. Not to mention dredging up how the other Death Eaters tormented me. Rather a lot. I spent that fucking year terrified every time I walked through my house, and today brought me back there." He looks over at Potter. "Circe, you wouldn't believe how I begged my parents to let me stay away during hols. I couldn't, of course. His Lordship would have noticed his newest little toy gone missing." The twist of his mouth says it all, he thinks. 

Potter swears softly, his thick-fingered hand coming to rest on Draco's hip. "If I could, I would go back in time and fuck them all over. Every last one of them." He considers. "I mean, I suppose I could, if I had a Time Turner, but you know I'd cock it up." He shakes his head. "Last time I tried it, I nearly buggered everything."

"I made it through." Draco rests his head against Potter's shoulder. He chews his lip. "I've never told anyone else this, you know. Not even Pansy or Blaise. I wouldn't want anyone thinking I was weak." He pauses, a flare of irritation going through him again. "Or possibly a whore," he adds sharply, "even though nothing happened." His body tenses, remembering the look on his uncle's fucking face. "And if it had, it wouldn't have been my fault." He doesn't add that his greatest fear for those years was that he was going to end up a whore for the Death Eaters and there was going to be nothing anyone, even Severus, could do to stop it. That fear had been something Nicholas had been able to tap into. Far too bloody effectively. He looks at Potter. "I'm not a fucking whore. Not like that.”

Potter winces. "I'm sorry for saying that. It was completely uncalled for."

"I pushed," Draco says. "I was angry. Wanted you to hurt." Maybe wanted you to hurt me, he thinks about saying, but he doesn't. 

"It did." Potter drags his knuckles across Draco's jaw. "I'm sorry I can't protect you. Fuck, Malfoy. I couldn't bear it if someone hurt you, even me--"

Draco presses a finger against Potter's mouth. "You can't protect everyone."

They look at each other for a long moment, then Potter says, with an anguished twist of his face, "I know."

"Potter," Draco says, but Potter's shaking his head. 

"Don't," Potter whispers, and his eyes are too bright. He blinks hard. "Only one of us on the ledge at a time, Malfoy. I think you've got priority there, what with the Mark."

And Draco remembers Potter went to the Mind Healer this morning, that Potter's just as wounded as he is by the Morsmordre. "Potter," he says again, and then Potter's wrapped around him, his face pressed against Draco's shoulder, the rims of his glasses digging into Draco's skin. 

Potter draws in a ragged breath. "Christ," he says. He falls silent. Draco strokes a hand along his back. 

And then Potter says, "My scar hurt." 

Draco's hand stills. "Last night?"

"No." Potter's fingers dig into Draco's hip, pull him closer. "Last Tuesday. Before all this happened. That nightmare I had, remember?"

Draco does. It'd been the day Potter'd first told him about the Mind Healer, that he'd gone. "You said the nightmare was because of your session."

Potter nods, then sighs against Draco's shoulder. He reaches up, takes off his glasses, clutching them in his hand. "I thought that's what it was. But I woke up with it hurting. And now…" He trails off, and he turns his face, buries it against the curve of Draco's throat. 

"Now you're not so certain," Draco says quietly. Fingers of terror claw at his mind, but he pushes them away. He can't give in to that right now. If he goes down that road, Draco's not certain he'll make his way back. 

"Something like that." Potter pulls back, looks down at Draco's forearm. His lashes are so dark, so thick. "Don't tell anyone, Malfoy, but I'm bloody well scared out of my fucking skin right now." 

God, but Draco understands. He touches Potter's face. "I know."

Potter breathes out, his gaze caught by Draco's. "The worst thing of it is that everyone I love leaves me. My parents, Remus, Sirius, Tonks. I couldn't protect them either." He licks his bottom lip and blinks hard. There's a wetness at the corner of his eyes. He catches Draco's hand, turns it over so that the cut is visible. Potter just looks at it. He swallows, then glances back up at Draco. "I don't know what I'd do, you fucking arsehole, if you went away too."

Draco stills, and he can't look away. He thinks Potter might be implying something Draco doesn't know he's ready to hear. Except that it fits into a space in his heart that's waiting for it. "Oh, you idiot," he whispers as Potter presses his lips to Draco's palm, as Potter murmurs a healing spell that knits Draco's torn skin together in a quick, sharp flare of pain that eases almost immediately. "I'll only go away if you ask me to."

"You ran here," Potter whispers. "You left me alone in our room--"

And Draco kisses him, pulls Potter against him, his body arching against Potter's before he wraps one leg around Potter's waist. "I was angry."

"What if you had sent me away permanently?" Potter's lips brush against Draco's. "I don't know what I would have done--" His voice cracks, and Draco can't bear it. 

"I can't send you away," Draco says. He meets Potter's gaze. "You're everything--"

Potter rolls off the bed, pulling Draco with him, lifting him up. Draco wraps his legs around Potter's waist as Potter kisses him, tangles one hand in Draco's hair, the other cupped beneath Draco's arse. "I'm taking you back to our room," Potter says against Draco's mouth. 

"God, please," Draco manages to get out. He holds onto Potter tightly, kissing along Potter's jaw. "I'm so sorry," he whispers. 

"You fucking ought to be," Potter says, but his tone's gentle. Careful. He looks at Draco. "You know, Ron told me we're dating today."

Draco stills, his hands tight on Potter's shoulders. "Did he?" His heart's thudding against his chest. "Did you tell him he's mad?"

"Thought about it." Potter manages to get the door open without dropping Draco. He stands there for a moment, Draco pressed between the wall and Potter. "Except, I think he might be right?"

"Oh." Draco worries his bottom lip between his teeth. "Do you?" He lets his fingers slip through Potter's hair. 

Potter looks at him. "Yeah," he says softly. "So, Malfoy?"

"Yes?" Draco can barely breathe. 

"How do you feel about being my boyfriend?" Potter asks, and his mouth brushes across Draco's. "I mean, given I'm not technically your SIO any longer."

Something explodes deep within Draco. It's so unfamiliar that it takes him a moment to realise it's happiness. He can't answer, not at first, and then Potter's brow starts to furrow, and Draco manages to get out, "Yes." He kisses Potter, slow and sweet and gentle. "I think I'm good with that." He can feel Potter smile against his lips. "Carry me back to our room," Draco whispers. 

Potter does.

And Draco doesn't give a goddamned fuck who sees them in the hall.

***

Many hours later, deep in the night, far past everything, Draco drifts faintly to consciousness. He's warm and pleasantly drowsy, and the lights of the Financial District and Battery Park City are comforting, twinkling through the windows of his and Potter's room. And it is _their_ room now, Draco realises. It's a space they're making together, perhaps almost big enough to hold the weight of their pasts and the future he hopes they might have. Together.

Potter's body is nestled behind Draco, and as Draco looks out the window, pleasantly suspended between sleep and waking, warm and relaxed, he recognises the firm ridge of Potter's erection nestled against his arse.

The shiver of desire that goes through Draco is almost elemental, much deeper than thought or emotion even. He finds himself pressing backwards into Potter's body, rubbing slightly as the firm length of Potter's cock slips further up his crease. And Draco's awake and breathless, aching with need now, trembling with a bone-deep need to have Potter inside him, fucking him, marking him as his own.

Draco rolls his hips, all too aware that he's hard now himself, and loving the feel of Potter's prick, warm and hard through the thin cotton of Draco's y-fronts. Draco's body is thrumming with want, his skin sensitive to the heated press of Potter sleeping behind him. Draco's torn between the need to wake Potter, to beg him to fuck Draco senseless, and the tender, soft awareness that Potter needs to rest, that Draco wants to protect Potter whilst he sleeps.

It's been such a long, exhausting day after all.

As Draco's considering, Potter shifts behind him, and Draco's surprised by a low laugh. Potter nuzzles Draco's neck. "Christ, if you wanted some attention, all you had to do was ask." Potter's breath on his skin makes Draco break out in hot prickles of gooseflesh. 

Draco's breath is coming in soft gasps, and he's so fucking hard. "You're an arsehole," he says. "Were you awake the whole time?"

"You snore," Potter says, and his fingers trace the edge of Draco's y-fronts, just at the top of his thigh. 

"Bastard." But Draco doesn't mean it. Not with Potter's fingertip slipping beneath the cotton edging, sliding down the warmth of Draco's taint. Draco breathes out, slow and staggering. "Merlin. I need you."

"What do you need me to do?" Potter kisses the back of Draco's neck, nipping gently.

Draco pushes his arse against Potter's prick, body incandescent with desire but his mind unable to focus on anything but the beat of his blood in his veins and the pressure of Potter's body on his. "Everything. But right now? I want your prick in me." Potter shifts slightly, as if to move away, and Draco keens, grappling behind him to pull Potter close. "No. Don't."

Potter laughs, his finger sliding across the back of Draco's bollocks. Draco shifts his thighs, cocking the top one higher so Potter has an unobstructed reach. "Needy thing. If you want my prick, I need to get something for lube."

"Just say the spell," Draco chokes out, his body shuddering against Potter's. Circe, he's never felt this turned on, this desperate before. Not with anyone he's ever fucked. Not with anyone he's ever loved. All he can think about is Potter's breath against his lips, asking Draco if he wanted to be his boyfriend. 

_Boyfriend._ Draco hates the sound of the word, thinks it ridiculous, childish even, but when Potter whispers it against Draco's skin, it's all Draco wants to be. 

He's Potter's. Potter is his. For however long this madness between them lasts. 

"Fuck," Draco says as Potter's body shifts behind his. "Just make it work, for God's sake." He feels like he's going to die if Potter leaves him unsatisfied, if he pulls away from his skin. His Marked arm hurts as he scrapes against the sheet, but dimly, filtered through the hot arousal of his body.

Potter pushes his boxers down as Draco claws at his y-fronts, shoving his pants down his thighs just enough, and Potter casts the spell wandlessly against Draco's skin, barely moving, and Draco senses the cool slickness of conjured lube as Potter's fingers coat him with it, pressing into him, stretching him wide. God, but it feels fucking amazing; it's everything that Draco wants right now, to have Potter feeling about inside him, fingers slick and thick and wide. Potter's cock bumps along Draco's crease as Potter raises himself up on one arm for leverage, his hips close to Draco's. Draco feels the burn of Potter's cock nudging at his slick entrance, and he groans, pushing his hips back, his own prick bobbing in front of him, his slick head catching against the rumpled bedsheets. The lube spells are never as good, but Draco's so bloody aroused right now, his nipples aching, his cock swollen and wet, that Potter could probably fuck him dry if he wanted to. He'd certainly let him try, Draco thinks.

Potter grunts, then he lowers his shoulder back down to the bed, pulling Draco close. Their bodies slot against each other perfectly, Potter's prick splitting Draco open, and this time when Draco rolls his hips back, he pushes several inches of Potter into his body. It's too much and it's exactly what he needs. He cries out, his body stuttering with want.

Potter groans. "Merlin, how you feel." His hand curves around Draco's hip, holding him still, his fingernails digging into Draco's hipbone. 

Draco's so tight, and it burns badly, but he wants this so much. Needs to feel Potter moving inside of him, taking him, claiming him. Draco breathes out, soothing his mind, relaxing, finding his comfort zone. He wants Potter to feel him, to want only him. 

And then Potter thrusts and the breath is punched out of Draco's lungs. It feels sodding incredible, Draco thinks, his hand clawing at the pillows above him.

They rock together, joined and achingly slow. Potter scratches his nails lightly along Draco's thigh, making Draco flinch and sigh and arch his shoulders back. Draco clenches around Potter's cock, which still isn't fully inside of him, and Potter gasps against the back of Draco's neck, bites at the curve of Draco's throat. They're having to go easy because of the lube, but Draco doesn't mind. Not yet at least. He likes the feel of Potter working his way into Draco's arse, of Draco taking him in bit by bit. Draco tries not to get ahead of himself--he knows he'll feel this in the morning regardless. It wouldn't be a good idea to be too greedy.

Still, there comes a moment when he's desperate to have Potter in him entirely, to feel the warmth of Potter's bollocks pressed against the back of Draco's thighs. "Come on," Draco spits out. "Fuck. Fuck me."

"Yeah?" Potter asks, his voice low and breathless. "Like this?" Potter pulls Draco back by his hipbone, pushing forward with his own hips, and Draco is fully nestled against him now, arsecheeks against Potter's skin. It's everything, and Potter feels sodding enormous like this.

"Oh," Draco breathes out. "Oh, fuck yes." 

Their fingers are entwined, one hand raised above their heads, the other cupped beneath them, holding them close, and the bed shifts beneath them gently with each careful thrust. They find a movement where Draco presses back and then Potter rocks forward. It's give and take and pure brilliance. Draco feels like he could do this for hours, pleasure slowly spilling across his heated skin, Potter panting behind him, a breathless pleasure that builds in waves, lifting them both higher. Draco loves fucking Potter, loves feeling Potter move inside of him, around him, loves the feel of Potter's mouth across his skin, the tightness of Potter's fingers gripping his, the delicious ache of Draco's cock as it presses into the bed, slides across the sheets.

Potter's close, Draco can tell. His prick is so hard, and Draco's body is opening around him, encompassing his girth. Draco spares a thought for how perfect Potter's prick is, how nice it is to be fucked by someone with a hefty prick. They're barely moving against each other, but it's so intimate. So intense. Draco's gasping with the joy of it.

He clenches his inner muscles around Potter, and the broken-off cry Potter utters against his hair is everything. He clasps Potter's hand tighter, digs his fingernails into Potter's skin. "Please, baby," he whispers, feeling as if his heart might shatter with pleasure. "Please fuck me."

Potter mouths at his neck. "Christ, Draco," Potter gasps out on a slow stroke, and Draco stops moving for a moment in shock at the sound of his name falling from Potter's lips, whispering against Draco's skin. Potter slips even further into Draco. "Oh, God, you feel fucking amazing."

Warmth unfurls in the very core of Draco's being. He shifts, turning his upper body to meet Potter' lips. Potter leans forward. "Draco," he whispers again, and Potter's eyes are bright and fixed on Draco's face. "Draco," he says again, watching him, as he drags his lips against Draco's. It's almost a incantation. An invocation. A litany instilled into one small word. "Draco." And Potter kisses him again. 

Draco makes a decision.

"Harry," Draco breathes into the kiss. "My Harry." 

And he is. Oh, how Harry is his. They belong together, they always have, Draco thinks. It's always been Harry, even when Draco fought against it. They are Harry and Draco and they always will be. 

Even when they're done with each other.

And Harry's lips are hot against his, soft and open, and their bodies are moving in perfect tandem, and then Draco clenches hard, his body starting to reach the crest of climax, and Harry shudders behind him, whispering Draco's name over and over and over again against his skin, and their bodies are shaking together for mindless moments until they're wet and aching, quivering and gasping.

They come together, their bodies entwined, hard and hot and fast, and Harry catches Draco before he slumps forward.

"Jesus," Harry murmurs against Draco's sweaty skin. "Jesus, Draco." He breathes out. 

Draco's heart is in his throat. He feels shattered, splintered, in shards like the glass he'd destroyed earlier. He has no idea if he can be put together after this.

And the thought whispers in his ear that he doesn't need to be put together, that he was already broken, Harry was too, and that together they're becoming something new. That this isn't a transfiguration but rather a metamorphosis. 

Draco knows instinctively that he's not only out of his comfort zone, but he's out further in the waters of life than he's ever been before.

He's terrified. He's thrilled. He's determined.

And he has no fucking idea what happens next.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, you can subscribe to this fic for chapter updates, or you can subscribe for series updates [here on AO3](http://archiveofourown.org/series/661862) or follow me [on tumblr at femmequixotic!](http://femmequixotic.tumblr.com).
> 
> I'm on vacation still, so Chapter Eight of These Secrets In Me will be posted on Sunday again, this time on July 23.
> 
> Also, for you Jake fans, I posted [a snippet of Jake backstory to Tumblr here](http://femmequixotic.tumblr.com/post/162823304950/for-the-writers-game-could-you-please-answer-35), if you're interested.
> 
> And I've been the fortunate recipient of some lovely things for the Tales from the Special Branch series this week! mea-momento has drawn some AMAZING (and very NSFW) art of the shower scene from Can't Get You Out of My Head [here](http://femmequixotic.tumblr.com/post/162917776560/mea-momento-draco-knows-he-should-leave-this), and libbyloves13 put together a GORGEOUS Pansy moodboard [here.](http://femmequixotic.tumblr.com/post/162960774335/libbyloves13-my-cravings-for-the-incredible) THANK YOU GUYS SO MUCH. YOU ARE AWEOME. *hugs*


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Pansy has brunch with her sister, Ron takes Harry and Hermione sightseeing, and Graves is a shifty, shifty bastard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story has been written on highways and byways over, like, nearly a thousand miles this week. Noe and I are stopping in a hotel tonight basically to post (hopefully before midnight) and to sleep. There are so many exciting conversations happening, in the comments and on tumblr, and I love seeing all of the serious thoughts and reflections you share. As readers, you are amazing, and more than I deserve. You're also terribly discerning, especially when I think I'm being sneaky. *eyes you all sternly, then laughs my fool head off*
> 
> Kisses to sassy_cissa, who screened everything and read for continuity. Love also to Noe, who drove and edited and plotted with me all along the East Coast of the US this week. Literally.

Pansy opens her eyes to bright sunlight and the distinct feeling that she's not in her bed at the Millenium Hilton. The walls are a pale grey, not tan, and the duvet she's huddled beneath is slate, not white. 

Fuck, she thinks. It wasn't a terrible dream then. Just a terrible decision, and frankly, Pansy's famous for those. She turns her head; Tony's sprawled beside her on his stomach, his sandy brown hair rumpled against the crisp white pillowcase, his bare shoulders slightly freckled and incredibly muscular. Pansy remembers all too well how those shoulders had felt beneath her hands as Tony fucked her up against the wall last night, her knickers pulled to one side, his thick prick deep inside of her, Pansy's cries echoing in the silent room. 

And this is exactly why she shouldn't have gone drinking with him. But it'd been Saturday and he'd come into the lab and they'd argued yet again, and really, shouting at each other is practically a form of foreplay for the two of them. Tony'd left, and then he'd come back to apologise, to ask her to go out for a drink. And Pansy'd been weak, and she'd been tired, and her defences had been down. So she'd said yes. 

Cue this morning, and her waking up starkers in Tony's bed. Well, technically it's his uncle's, she supposes, given that the small Midtown flat's owned by Amos Goldstein to use when he comes over for business. Which he obviously isn't at the moment, given Tony's things are scattered through every room.

Pansy slides out of the bed, trying not to shift the mattress and wake Tony. Her clothes are in a pile across the room, and Pansy's so glad Camilla Parkinson can't see her now, tiptoeing across a wooden floor to snatch up her bra and pants. She pulls them on, fastens the hooks on the back of her bra, then reaches for her strappy, pale pink and cream dress.

"Where are you going?" Tony's voice is raspy and sleepy and low. It sends a shiver of want through her. 

Pansy looks back at the bed. Tony's stretching, rolling over, his solid chest furred lightly with golden-brown hair, his brown nipples hard and round. Merlin, she hates how attracted she is to him, the way her stomach flips when she sees him slide out from beneath the covers, hips narrow, cock half-hard. "I promised Daisy I'd come by today."

And Pansy had; she just hadn't given her sister a specific time. She feels a bit guilty about that, to be honest. She hasn't seen Daisy since Tuesday night when she'd gone out to the Hamptons rental for the party. Pansy's been putting Daisy off, she knows, but it's been a bit mad the past few days, hasn't it? If she's honest, she's also worried about Daisy's knowledge of their case--it's getting harder and harder for Pansy to pretend the spheres of work and family are separate.

Tony walks up to Pansy; she turns away, her dress still in her hand. "Stop it, Tony."

"Last night, you had a distinctly different reaction," Tony says, sliding his arms around her and pulling her up against his chest. She can feel his prick against her arse, and she shivers a bit, particularly when his hand cups her breast, thumb teasing her nipple through the lacy scrap of her bra. 

"You're a right arsehole," Pansy says, but she lets herself lean back against his chest, doesn't protest too much when his other hand slips down into her knickers, fingers sliding through her labia. "You know that, yes?" She breathes out as his fingertip flicks at her clit. Her dress slides from her fingers in a soft whisper of cotton, falls to the floor. "Fuck,Tony, you bastard…" She trails off, lost in the sensation already.

Tony just presses his face against the curve of her throat, his mouth soft against her skin, and Circe, but Tony's always going to be her downfall, isn't he? Pansy moans as he slides a finger inside of her, and he rolls her nipple between his thumb and fingertip. She wants to pull away, wants to shout at him, but Tony knows exactly what touch makes her toes curl, knows how nipping at her earlobe sends a shudder through her whole body. 

"Please," Pansy hears herself say, and then her knickers are around her thighs, and Tony's bent her forward, her hands splayed against the top of the low dresser, his prick pressing inside of her. Pansy looks at herself in the mirror hung over the dresser, at her tangled, dark hair and her tits, one cup of her bra pulled down beneath a pink nipple, Tony's fingers pinching and rubbing at it, and Circe but it feels incredible. 

He fucks her slowly, bending over her, sliding a hand along her side, over her arm, his fingers twisting through hers as she grips the edge of the dresser, breathing hard. It's always been like this for the two of them, this primal, sexual need, the way their bodies fit together, the tingling flush that spreads across Pansy's chest, up her throat as he moves inside of her, his bollocks slapping gently against the back of her thighs. 

Pansy watches him fuck her in the mirror, watches her face soften, her body respond to the press of Tony's hips against her arse, her legs spreading wider to get a better angle, her back arching as she rolls her hips towards him, wanting to take him deeper. And Tony, Merlin, the way he looks behind her, shoulders tight, lip caught between his teeth, his hand gripping her hip tightly with each slow thrust. 

This has always been the one thing they've been good at. Driving each other wild with their bodies, making them _want_ the other so bloody badly. It's why all of her resolve to walk away from him has never really amounted to much. The combination of years of acquaintance and pure, animal lust is intoxicating, unique even in Pansy's considerable experience. And he can fuck her for hours whilst barely breaking a sweat.

That, Pansy's learnt, is a bloody rare talent.

"Fuck," Pansy chokes out as Tony picks up his rhythm, slamming into her harder, faster, her breasts swinging forward, and he digs his fingers into her hipbone. It hurts, but Pansy doesn't care because she loves the feel of him inside of her, loves the way they look when they're fucking like this, her knees bound by the stretch of her knickers, Tony's fingers finding her clit again, rubbing through her wet, slick folds. 

Her body tenses, quivers, and Tony's whispering against her back, his mouth moving across her shoulder blades. "Come for me. Let yourself go. I've got you," he murmurs, and Pansy's body jerks beneath his touch, and she clenches around him, waves of pleasure rising up, rolling through her body, making her thighs shake as she pushes back against his thrust, gasping, tilting her hips to get just the right angle to send her flying, shattering.

And then Tony's fingers press against her clit with the perfect twist, and Pansy's crying out, her whole body shuddering as she comes undone around Tony's gorgeously hard prick. 

Tony keeps fucking her through her climax, and she can feel the tautness in his body, her own softening and shivering around his, taking him in, pressing back, and he throws his head back with a rattling gasp, the muscles on his neck long and tight, a flush going across his tanned cheeks, and Pansy's never seen anything more beautiful than Tony Goldstein as he comes inside her. 

He slides his arms around her, kisses the back of her neck, still breathing hard. "Sure you need to see Daisy?" he asks, his lips moving across the curve of her spine. "We could order takeaway, stay in bed all day..."

For a moment, Pansy's tempted. She's never made the best decisions where Tony's concerned. "I can't," she says finally. "I do need to see Daisy." 

Tony rubs her hip, gently lets his prick slip out of her. She can feel his spunk slide down the inside of her thigh. "Pity. But I suppose I can't keep you tied to my bed." He kisses her shoulder, nipping gently at her neck and making her body shiver with aftershocks.

They both know he could, and the thought of being tied to Tony's bed and fucked senseless makes Pansy weak in the knees. She squares her shoulders, flashes a fierce glance at him. "Save something for later, Goldstein." He smiles at her, warmth crinkling his eyes, and she realises she has implied there will be a later, and she doesn't care.

She pulls away from him, grabbing her dress and staggering slightly to the loo. She needs a locked door between them or she'll give in and shag him all day. She knows she will. It's just how it is between them. Her knickers are genuinely beyond repair, the elastic snapped at the thigh opening--she could spend time weaving them back together with spellwork, but they'd just fall apart again. Pansy leaves them on the edge of the bathroom sink. Bastard can take them as a trophy, she thinks, a wry smile curving her lips. 

Pansy fixes her bra, then eyes herself critically in the mirror. After casting a few grooming spells that are woefully inadequate, she uses another Scourgify on the dress, a careful one Jinksy had taught her when she ruined a lace frock as a child and Camilla had punished her. It wouldn't do to blast holes in her clothing today, she thinks. Daisy'll be alarmed by her shoddy appearance, although, really, Pansy thinks she could look a bit more a fright if she tried. And has in the past, if she's honest. Pansy Parkinson's no stranger to the Sunday morning walk of shame.

When she emerges, Tony is throwing together coffee in the kitchenette, judging by the mug on the counter and the bag of coffee beans. His muscular, tanned back is turned and he's cursing at an enormous gleaming silver contraption that Pansy assumes produces coffee, although it's twice as big as hers at home. She snorts. Men and their too large, too ridiculously expensive gadgets. His soft grey pyjama trousers ride low on his hips, and Pansy is struck with how gorgeously put together his body is. She takes a moment to contemplate his arse.

"I'll send you a naughty picture if you like," Tony says without turning around. "Although I'd rather pose in person and have you take it."

"Promises, promises," Pansy says lightly, ducking to retrieve her shoes from where she'd left them the night before. She makes a slightly unsteady beeline for the Floo.

"I won't firecall," Tony says from behind her, a teasing lilt in his voice as he says their familiar farewell, a mockery of their mother's requests for news from Hogwarts when they were children.

"And I won't owl," Pansy returns automatically, lifting a nervous hand to smoothe her hair before throwing a pinch of powder into the Floo and stepping into the bright green flames. Daisy really is going to be appalled, she thinks, and her stomach drops a bit.

As she swirls away, Pansy hears him say from closer by, "Be careful with yourself, Pansy girl."

And that is new. Tony doesn't usually say anything sentimental when she leaves, and that sounded awfully fond, concerned even. Pansy pushes it out of her mind. She can't afford to get more hung up on this arsehole. It's bad enough she let him shag her rotten again and is now slinking out of his uncle's apartment to meet her sister in the clothes she wore yesterday. Sans knickers, even.

Pansy stumbles a bit when she steps out of the Floo on the other end. She leans sideways against the black marble of the fireplace, letting herself find her balance on the wooden floor. The coordinates that Daisy had given her are new--Eustace and Daisy moved house this year, and this flat is more firmly ensconced in the wizarding blocks of the Upper East Side. Daisy had been crowing about the location and what a coup it was, as has their mother. Camilla's a bloody trollop for good property. Pansy looks around a bit, and despite herself, she's impressed. The ceilings are high, the view of New York is gorgeous, and the decor screams casually expensive. Daisy's done well for herself, Pansy thinks, and she shoves down a swift flare of envy. She wouldn't mind having this palatial flat to call home either, but she's made her bed with the Aurors, as lumpy and ill-situated as it may be.

Daisy comes in from the other room, frowning slightly, eyebrows raised. The expression on her face makes her look so like their mother so much for a moment that it takes Pansy's breath away. The wafting smell of freesia from a pot in the hallway doesn't help. Pansy's fairly certain it's from a cutting from one of the plants at the Norfolk house.

"Pansy, there you are!" Daisy's eyes are warm as she kisses her. "What happened to you?" She looks Pansy up and down, her brow furrowed in concern. "Tell me you weren't mugged?"

"On a Sunday in the Upper East Side?" Pansy rolls her eyes, tugging at her dress. "Yes, that's exactly what happened, because of course I'm not a trained Auror who could handle some arsehole trying to take my bag from me. Merlin's balls. Listen, Dinks, I'm know it's terribly rude, but could I have a shower? And maybe a spare pair of knickers that you hate?" She tries to look repentant. She isn't really--her body is shaking and she can still feel Tony to her core.

Daisy sighs, brushing a fond hand over Pansy's cheek as though she's a small child. "Tony Goldstein. Again, yes?" The looks she gives Pansy is disapproving. "Merlin, Pans, you've got to stop with that one. He's nothing but trouble."

The shrug Pansy gives is half concession, half challenge. She knows Daisy doesn't like Tony, and that she probably has a point. "He happened to be in town."

"I'm aware." Daisy frowns, leading Pansy down the hall and into the kitchen. It's bright and large, all glass-fronted white cabinets and white marble countertops, the fixtures gleaming chrome, the floors a dark-stained wood. There's a cup of tea still steaming on the centre island in a bright floral porcelain mug. Daisy picks it up. "Tea?"

Pansy shakes her head. She'd rather a good black coffee, to be honest, but Daisy's never had that in her kitchen. Daisy considers coffee to be common. She walks over to the refrigerator and takes out one of the bottles of water she knows her sister keeps chilling in the side door. She uncaps it and drinks half of it in one swallow before she turns around. She's parched, and she blames Tony for that.

"Eustace says Tony's a spy." Daisy leans against the island counter, her tea cupped between her hands. She looks elegant in her bare feet and her black yoga pants and her pale grey, sleeveless racerback t-shirt that hangs loose over her black sports bra. Her dark hair's twisted up in a messy bun, a few long tendrils curled around her shoulders. Pansy feels a complete slob compared to her sister; she's never looked so good in her own workout clothes. Daisy glances over at Pansy. "Is he?"

"He's an Unspeakable, not a fucking spy." It's a thin line, Pansy thinks, but she'll draw it.

"Whatever." Daisy's frown deepens. She takes a sip of her tea. "Frankly, he's treated you rather horribly in all this. Not to mention poor Eva. Honestly, the way he's tossed that poor girl aside…" Daisy shakes her head. "Mother says it's the talk of the shul. Michal Goldstein can barely show her face--"

This gets Pansy's ire up, a coil of anger twisting in her gut. "Like Mother once it gets out how you've treated poor Eustace?" Her tone is bitchy, and the comment drops loudly in the echoing quiet.

Daisy blanches, setting her cup aside. "What?"

Pansy regrets her sharp tongue immediately. She reaches a hand out, gingerly strokes her sister's arm. "I'm sorry, Dinks. He's not here is he?" She hadn't heard anyone, and she'd understood they'd be alone together, but she shouldn't have been so indiscreet. 

"Thank Merlin, no." Daisy gives her an even look. "What exactly are you implying, Pinks?" The childhood nickname, the one Daisy had given her to match a tiny Pansy's name for her, makes Pansy's heart ache. 

"I just…" Pansy bites her lip. What the fuck, she thinks. She meets Daisy's gaze. "I heard a rumour you were fucking Dimitri Godunov."

Daisy glares at her. "Tony again?"

Pansy nods, this time genuinely chastened. "Are you?"

There's a long silence, then Daisy looks away, walks over to the kitchen sink and dumps her tea out. She rinses the cup and sets it aside before she turns around, her back pressed against the white porcelain of the apron sink. "I was," she says quietly. "But I broke it off."

"Why?" Pansy walks over to her sister, stops a foot or two away. "Did he hurt you?" Pansy's mouth tightens. "Because if he did, I'll--"

"No." Daisy shakes her head. "It wasn't anything like that. Circe, Pans, you don't understand sometimes…" She trails off, turns back around to the sink, clutching the edge of it. Her shoulder blades poke out of her t-shirt; she looks long and frail and delicate, and a wave of protective fierceness washes over Pansy. 

Pansy moves closer, wraps her arms around her sister's waist, puts her head against Daisy's shoulder. "What don't I understand?"

She feels Daisy tense beneath her touch, draw in an unsteady breath. "It's not easy being Terry Parkinson's daughter," she starts to say and Pansy snorts. 

"I think I know that."

Daisy turns, pulls away. "You don't. You have it easier, Pans. You got away, and I'm so glad you did." She looks at Pansy, her brow furrowed. "I wish Daddy'd had a boy to follow him into the business."

That makes Pansy's heart skip. "Are you saying Daddy's involved in criminal activities?"

"No." Daisy runs a hand over her face. She's too thin, Pansy thinks; she can see the indentations of her sister's ribs, the sharpness of Daisy's wristbones, and it worries her. "It's not Daddy." She drops her hand, looks at Pansy. "Eustace is skimming money off the business profits. He thinks I don't know, but I figured it out."

Pansy flinches. "Does Daddy know?"

Daisy shakes her head. "Not yet. Eustace and I had a huge row about it before our party. I told him if he didn't stop I was going to tell Daddy." Her mouth twists, and she looks around the kitchen. "He asked me how the fuck I thought we afforded this place. Or the house in the Hamptons." 

"I thought that was a rental," Pansy says. 

"They're still not cheap." Daisy touches the green leaves of a screechsnap blooming on the window sill. "I just thought business was doing well. All the ledgers I'd seen lately were fine; nothing seemed out of the ordinary."

Pansy watches her sister, her stomach twisting a bit. She knows their father won't react well when he finds this out. "How'd you know?"

Daisy folds her arms across her chest and sighs. "Dimitri let a few hints drop whilst I was still sleeping with him. I went looking from there." She looks over at Pansy. "I was lonely, you know, and things haven't been good with Eustace." 

That surprises Pansy. She'd always assumed her sister had the perfect marriage. "I'm sorry," Pansy says. "I didn't know."

"No one did." Daisy twists a tendril of hair around her finger. "I know it was stupid, but Dimitri was kind to me, and he made me feel as if someone--anyone--wanted me." Daisy blinks, looks away. "You can't imagine what it's like. Your own husband not wanting to touch you."

Pansy's heart breaks a little for her sister. "Dinks." She reaches out, draws Daisy closer. "That only means Eustace is a fucking fool."

Daisy laughs, but it's empty and wet. She presses her face against Pansy's shoulder. "Don't tell Mother."

"Oh, fuck no." Pansy strokes her sister's back. She knows what Daisy means. It's not just the affair her sister wants hidden; it's the humiliation of her husband's rejection. Their mother will blame it on Daisy, of course. Ask her what she'd done wrong, how she'd turned Eustace away. 

"I tried everything," Daisy says after a moment. "But six months ago, he just stopped looking at me. Stopped touching me. Stopped noticing when I was in the room unless one of his friends was about. And then Dimitri was there, and he was so charming, and when he touched me, I felt _wanted._ " Daisy falls silent, pulls back from Pansy. "You can't judge me for that. Not with what you've done with Tony."

Pansy shakes her head. "I'd never, Dinks. You know that."

Daisy looks at her for a moment, then nods. "I do." She wipes a bit of wetness from her eyes with her thumb. "Thanks."

The silence stretches out between them, then Pansy sighs. "You know Tony's investigating Godunov, right?" she asks quietly. 

Daisy presses her lips together. "I do now. And so does Dimitri." Something crosses her face, a flash of worry that Pansy doesn't like. "I was concerned Tony might meet with a magical accident."

"Not listening," Pansy says without thought, a bit shaken by the chilly bluntness in her sister's voice. "But please don't let him kill him--Tony's a brilliant shag, and it would be such a loss for my twat."

Daisy laughs hollowly. "As if I could." She looks at Pansy. "You need to be careful, Pinks. Promise me you will. These men…" She rubs at the back of her neck, as if she's in pain. "They don't care about us. They just want to use us for what they can." 

Pansy's never heard her sister be this cynical. "Daisy--"

"I mean it." Daisy looks up at her. "Dimitri's flirting with you, but you shouldn't trust him." 

"I don't." Pansy touches her sister's arm. "I never would."

Daisy gives her a faint smile. "You're smarter than me, then." She looks away; her jaw works a bit. "I've been such a fool--"

"Stop." Pansy tugs her sister into her arms again. "Daise. Stop. You're brilliant. Daddy put you in charge of the New York office--"

"And my husband's been stealing his money," Daisy says sharply, pulling away. "And I've been cheating on him with a man the Department of Mysteries has under investigation. I wouldn't call myself anything but an idiot."

Pansy's mouth tightens. "Fuck that," she spits out. "You sound like Mother, and I know she has the best of intentions, and she loves us. I know that. But we can't be perfect, Daisy. Neither one of us. Whatever Camilla expects." She tilts Daisy's chin up. "You fucked up. Merlin knows I have. I mean, I can't seem to stay out of Tony Goldstein's bed." She starts to tell her sister about Tony investigating their father, but stops. It's too much for right now. "And that's just not healthy for anyone involved."

Daisy's laugh is soft, raw. "No. But at least he's not Dimitri."

"Meh," Pansy huffs. "Godunov's attractive enough, if you like the bad boy vibe, and I'm thrilled to know you do, Dinks. I was starting to think I was the only Parkinson with that particular kink."

"Please," Daisy says with a roll of her eyes. "Mother married Daddy, after all. It has to come from her side."

Pansy smiles at her sister. "I adore you," she says suddenly, and when her sister looks at her in surprise a rush of affection rolls over Pansy, making her blink back tears of her own. "I do, you know. You're the best big sister anyone could ask for." 

Daisy's eyes soften. "Pansy." She runs her hand through Pansy's hair, smoothing it back from her forehead. "Look," she says, a bit roughly. "Go take a shower and borrow something from my closet. We're going out for brunch, you and I, my treat."

"Expensive?" Pansy asks, with a laugh.

"And on Eustace's expense account," Daisy says, smiling at her sister. "The bastard ought to buy us something, wouldn't you say?"

Pansy slides her arm around her sister's. "Brilliant." 

She's only a little worried, she tells herself.

Then again, Pansy's an exceptional liar.

***

Draco lies beneath Harry, his breath coming in soft gasps, his entire body still tingling, his fingers carding through Harry's hair. "Merlin," he says with a soft laugh, and Harry nips at Draco's jaw, pulling back just enough to look down at him.

"Good?" Harry asks, and he shifts, his softening prick slipping out of Draco's arse. Draco shivers at the sudden feeling of slick emptiness inside of him. 

"Not bad," Draco says, and he smiles at Harry's fake-affronted face, pulling him down into a long, careful kiss. He sucks at Harry's bottom lip, lets it slide out from between his teeth. He loves slow Sunday morning sex, particularly with Harry, and the way Harry draws it out, teasing Draco, bringing him close to orgasm, then tugging him away, over and over and over again, until when Draco finally tips over the edge, it's explosively intense, nearly lifting Draco's entire body off the bed with the force of it. Draco plays with the soft curls at the nape of Harry's neck. "Besides," he says against Harry's mouth, "you know you're brilliant, you fucker."

Harry just smiles into the kiss, and his palm slides down Draco's spunk-streaked belly, smearing Draco's come into his skin before he whispers a cleaning spell that prickles across Draco's flat abdomen.

"I could fuck you all day," Harry whispers, his fingers stroking along Draco's pubic hair, over the base of his cock, and Draco marvels at how natural it feels to think of Potter as Harry now. He still hasn't completely processed the idea that he's dating Harry, though, that he could walk up to someone and introduce Harry as his boyfriend. Partner. Whatever they're calling each other. It seems surreal, and yet so normal, and every time he thinks about it, Draco feels a bit of a thrill go through him. He wonders what his childhood self would have thought of this. Probably would have been bloody horrified, he thinks. 

And maybe more than a bit intrigued. And jealous. Definitely, definitely jealous.

Draco's fingertips skim across Harry's jaw. He needs to shave, but Draco rather likes this faint bit of stubble. He drags his mouth along the path of his fingers, marvelling in the soft scrape of Harry's stubble across his lips. It's incredible, he thinks, how he's rediscovering Harry's body not as Potter's, but as _Harry's_ , and how very different that shift in his thinking makes everything feel. 

"I wish you could," he says, his mouth against Harry's throat. "But I've got training again with Durant." He can feel Harry tense above him, and Draco draws his hands down the firm line of Harry's back. "Stop it."

Harry presses his face against Draco's hair. "I can't help it. I don't like you being forced to work with him."

"You're just territorial," Draco says, and Harry huffs a warm sigh against Draco's skin, wriggling so that his hips are nestled between Draco's thighs. Draco runs his fingertips along Harry's shoulder blades, wishes he could spend today in their bed instead of sparring with Durant. He'd been gone all of Saturday, from half-eleven in the morning until almost midnight when he'd crawled into bed next to a dozing Harry, not even bothering to take off anything but his boots. He'd been so bloody tired--physically, mentally, emotionally--and frustrated that he'd not been able to spend the day with his boyfriend, yet flying so high on the thrill of neuromancy that it'd taken him half an hour before he'd managed to fall asleep, curled around Harry's warm body. 

"I think it's bollocks that you have to work with my ex." Harry rubs a thumb over Draco's still-sensitive nipple. Draco likes this possessiveness from Harry, this sense that Harry's still not entirely comfortable with the shift in their relationship. It makes Draco feel better about his own uncertainties and anxieties, less as if he's a complete wanker for waking up in the middle of the night panicked and hyperventilating about what it means to be Harry Potter's partner, particularly when one is Draco Malfoy, former Death Eater, albeit a shitty, utterly inept one.

Draco catches Harry's wrist, pulls his hand away from his aching nipple. "I don't think any of us like it, but we haven't a choice, have we?" 

Harry just sighs again and leans his head against Draco's shoulder. "Fuck Tom Graves."

"I'd rather you not," Draco says with a smile as he runs his fingers through Harry's hair. He kisses Harry's temple. "Get off me. I need to shower and get dressed." 

"And that's what I object to," Harry says, but he rolls off of Draco, flopping onto his back, his soft prick lying against his thigh. Draco thinks about running his fingers along it, coaxing it up to its full length, making Harry's breath catch by tugging his foreskin back, but he hasn't the time, to be honest. Durant's expecting him by one at the latest and it's nearly noon now.

Draco kisses Harry quickly, then slides off the bed. "Order some food?" he asks, looking back at Harry's naked, golden brown body sprawled across the white sheets. He looks so goddamned beautiful, Draco thinks, and he asks himself once more what he's done to deserve someone like Harry. 

Harry waves his hand in the air. "Go," he says. "Shower. Although I wouldn't mind you going to Jake smelling like my spunk."

And that breaks the bubble of idealistic wonderment. Draco sputters, trying not to laugh, because hell if he'll give Harry the satisfaction. "You're foul."

"You like it." Harry raises up on one elbow and grins at Draco. "Don't tell me you don't."

That's the rub; Draco does. There's something about Harry's coarseness and earthiness that Draco finds ridiculously attractive, even as he's rolling his eyes. "Just get food, you wretch," he says, and he starts for the bath, Harry's wolf whistle following him along the way. Draco just sticks his arse out a bit more. Might as well make Harry salivate a little, he thinks. 

He steps beneath the hot spray of water, thinking back to the first time he watched Harry in a shower, his prick in his hand. Draco considers wanking off himself, seeing if Harry might come in, catch him at it, step into the wide tub with him. He doesn't, though regretfully. Instead he washes himself off, shampoos his hair, lifts his face into the pounding water, rinsing all traces of soap away. He stays like this for far, far longer than he needs, letting the warmth soothe his pleasantly aching muscles.

When Draco finally towels himself off, the mirror's steamy and his skin is pink and wrinkly from the heat. He casts a drying charm on his hair, then pulls it back up into a knot on the back of his head again. He sweats too much when he and Durant are sparring, and he hates the feel of his hair sticking to the back of his neck. He wraps the towel around his waist and walks back out into the bedroom.

Harry's sat on the edge of the bed, a room service tray hovering beside him. He's pulled on joggers, but that's all, and his hair's a dreadful fright and his chest's bare. 

"Did you answer the door like that?" Draco asks, only slightly appalled. And more than a bit annoyed that someone might have seen his boyfriend half-naked. His _boyfriend_. Even the thought makes his stomach drop.

"Might have done," Harry says with a half-smile and a raised eyebrow. "That a problem?"

Draco just sniffs and frowns at him. "Wear a fucking shirt next time, Potter."

Harry's mouth twitches more. "I'll keep that in mind, Malfoy." He pulls Draco onto the bed with him and kisses him, letting his hand trail up Draco's thigh beneath his towel. "Now come here, Draco."

Draco bats Harry's fingers away. 

"I have to go to work, you wretch," Draco says, and he knows there's a whine in his voice. Merlin, but he wants Harry, wants to crawl over him, wants to rut up against Harry's prick until Harry's hard again and ready to take Draco once more. He's half-disappointed, half-relieved when Harry pulls back and reaches out to take the lid off the plates on the tray. There are eggs and sausages, sliced fruit and the thick, American pancakes that Draco finds strange but fascinating, soft, pillowy bites of buttered dough laced with sweet syrup. It's not a full English, but it'll do, he thinks. He briefly longs for his beloved beans on toast. Fuck, but he misses them with a good, strong cuppa.

Harry spears a sausage with a fork and hands it to Draco. "Eat," he says. "You'll need your strength up for today. You looked like fucking shite when you came home last night." 

Draco takes a bite. It's surprisingly good, if not his favoured peppery Wiltshire link. He's also hungrier than he thought. "Legilimency is hard," he admits, and he licks away a bit of grease that runs down the side of his hand. 

"Jake says you're good at it." Harry picks up the plate of eggs and puts it on the bed between them. 

Draco pokes at the plate. "Does he?"

Harry blinks up at him, eyes impossibly green behind his glasses. "Yeah. He told Hermione he hadn't seen anyone like you before. You're a quick study." Harry gives him a curious look. "Very quick, it seems."

Draco's cheeks heat, and he focuses on chewing his eggs. "Oh." He's surprised, actually. He knows they've gone through a lot of basic curriculum in a ridiculously short amount of time, but he doesn't think he's that quick. Durant always makes Draco feel the way he imagines a small child feels, racing to catch up with an older, much wiser sibling. It's a new sensation to Draco as an only child, and he doesn't much like it. 

Still, when Draco gets frustrated or impatient, Durant is mostly thoughtful and only this side of patronising. Draco also doesn't like that--he's not used to needing anyone's help. But Durant is fair, Draco has to grant the bastard that. Their bargain on not using Harry as a weapon has held, and Durant's been respectful of Draco's physical and psychic boundaries, much more so than Draco imagines he would have been in Durant's shoes.

"What did Granger say?" Draco feels strange talking to Harry about one of Harry's best friends who's technically now Draco's SIO. Granger'd joined them in training yesterday to check in and to have a brief conversation with Durant about Draco's progress. Draco doesn't know how he feels about this sudden change in his status, as much as it has allowed another, perhaps better, change with Harry. It's odd, and the entire world seems a bit topsy-turvy at the moment. He takes a sip of his coffee and wills his mind to slow down.

Harry shrugs. "That she agreed you were doing well. Spectacularly well, in fact. You've a bloody natural talent for neuromancy." Harry looks a little uncomfortable. "I'm still narked that she pulled you away from the team."

Draco just takes a bite of eggs; Harry looks away. 

They're quiet for a moment, and then Draco sighs. "Mother's been trying to firecall me. Avery too." He spears another sausage and eats it. "I had five messages at the desk when I came back in."

"What do you think they want?" Harry asks, looking at him. 

"Father, most obviously." Draco wipes the corners of his mouth with his thumb and knuckle. He doesn't want to think about Lucius, but he can't help but wonder if his father felt the Mark too. Part of him doesn't want to know. "I suppose I'll have to firecall back." He'll put it off until later, though. Perhaps before he goes to MACUSA, but he knows he won't. He'd rather spend his last few moments of freedom with Harry, and Draco thinks about this morning and the way Harry had woken him up with soft kisses, his palm featherlight on Draco's prick through his trousers. 

A shiver goes through him, and he wonders what Harry'd felt waking up next to Draco, if it'd been the same thrill of lust and delight and amazement. He lets his mind drift, lets it skim across the surface of Harry's mind, picking up the soft hum of contentment, of happiness. It makes Draco's skin warm, his heart swell, and he breathes out.

"You're getting that look," Harry says softly. 

"What?" Draco blinks, focuses back on Harry's bare chest, lightly fuzzed with dark hair, the smile on Harry's face, the glass of orange juice in Harry's hand.

"Like you're already far, far away," Harry's voice is fond, but he's thoughtful, and Draco gets a faint sense of amused familiarity wafting from him. 

It's only then that Draco realises how long he's gone without speaking out loud. Longer than he'd realised. "Yeah, sorry. A bit." He takes another bite of eggs, his cheeks warming. 

"It's okay." Harry sips his juice, inclines his head. He smiles faintly "I seem to have a type, that's all."

Draco scowls at the sudden image of Durant, sprawled across a bed like this with Harry. Jealousy twists through him, and he knows that he's projecting it, just based on the raised eyebrow Harry gives him. Draco looks away. "I'm sure you're mistaken. There's no one like me."

Harry leans in then, plants a gentle kiss on his jaw. "Truer words, Draco Malfoy. Truer words." He lets his knuckles graze Draco's cheek as he whispers, "You're not him. You never will be. You're wonderfully--" Harry kisses the corner of Draco's mouth-- "beautifully--" another kiss on the other corner-- "you." Harry's lips brush Draco's, finally, and Draco breathes out.

"I still have fifteen minutes," Draco murmurs against Harry's mouth. "Before I absolutely have to be dressed." 

"That," Harry says, his voice soft against Draco's ear, "is more than enough time for me to blow you, yeah?"

A shudder goes through Draco as Harry reaches for his towel, undoing it. "Oh, without a doubt," he manages.

Harry slides down between Draco's thighs; the room service tray bobs away when his shoulder brushes it. Harry looks up at Draco, then licks his lips. When Harry's mouth slides along the length of Draco's half-swollen shaft, Draco twists his hands in the tangled sheets behind him, biting back a groan. 

Twenty minutes, Draco thinks. If he's late, no one's going to care.

Not even bloody Jake Durant.

***

"Now, remember," Durant's voice comes from somewhere near the spare, wooden desk, although in Draco's mind it seems much further away. "You need to keep your touch light like that to keep from disturbing the currents of the person's underlying psyche, especially in the case of damaged individuals."

"Especially in the case of your brother, you mean." Draco's sweating as he shifts on the low leather seat. He's glad he tucked his hair up into a bun today--it's swelteringly hot outside and even though Durant's office is decently cool, they've been doing precision drills for what seems like hours. He wants to be back in his hotel room, curled around Harry, but he has to keep those thoughts pushed down, tucked away. The last thing he wants is Durant getting even the smallest glimpse of the way Harry had looked on his knees, sucking Draco's prick this morning. A shiver of want goes through Draco, and he can't wait to get home, can't wait to push Harry back against the bed and kiss his idiotic face senseless.

"Exactly. Although if you do find yourself questioning him, don't fall for everything--Eddie's a tricky bastard when he wants to be." Durant flashes him a quick grin, and Draco relaxes. There've been moments when Durant's stumbled accidentally upon wisps of Harry in Draco's memories, but Draco's learnt how to tuck those images away tight before Durant gets anywhere near them. They're private anyway, and even if Draco wanted to flaunt them, the scowl and mental slap Durant gives him is enough for Draco to want to keep them hidden.

That trickiness of Eddie Durant's must be a familial trait, Draco thinks, and the lack of answering expression in Durant's eyes suggests he actually managed to keep that thought to himself as well this time. Draco's been getting better and better at holding his Occlumens whilst extending a part of his Legilimens to gather impressions and information. The balance's still bloody exhausting to maintain, but today's already so much easier than yesterday's session. It's like he's assimilating it on a visceral level, learning to control his neuromancy the way he'd learnt to fly a broom. First the swooping fear of falling comes, but then there's always the rush of soaring to new heights.

"Is your brother also a Legilimens?" Draco suspects he'll be asked to interview Eddie soonish, and he'd like to know what he's up against if that happens. He's suddenly afraid of being set up for failure, even more than he usually is.

Durant shrugs. "Not trained, that's for certain. He does know a few tricks to conceal things, and my mama was awfully gifted herself, so we played around with it when we were kids, but I don't think he'll be able to fox you if you're careful." Durant fixes him with a level glare. "But don't get too cocky. You're way too newly fledged for any assignment as it is. If this were peacetime, we'd be sending you to Tirésias for a training course before letting you near a live interrogation."

"Story of my life," Draco says, and he wishes it weren't true. He has always gone up against obstacles too soon that were impossible for him to overcome, and with everything he cared about riding in the balance. He'd always felt like a failure, but really, would it have been better if he had succeeded the way he'd hoped at the time? He still marvels that he survived the Second Wizarding War--or the Troubles, as his aunt calls it--and that he's alive, here, breathing, and not dead in a ditch somewhere in Scotland or England. Or in Azkaban, and he owes that part of it all to Harry, doesn't he?

Durant must be able to read something, perhaps just in Draco's expression, because he gives him a sympathetic look. "You sure you're okay, Malfoy? This has been an awful lot to take in. I mean, I'm not doubting you." He rubs a hand over his face. "But I also don't want you to freeze in the field either, if they ask you to interview someone. It could hurt you or the suspect if you decompensate."

Draco sighs, his exhaustion being replaced by a flare of irritation, which seems par for the course whilst he's training with Durant. Merlin, but the man can be a patronising git. "I won't freeze, _should_ I be asked to go into the field. I _am_ an Auror, you do realise? A sergeant even." He gives Durant a scathingly dismissive scowl. "And I have faced worse before." _You try keeping your Occlumens up around the fucking Dark Lord and his stupidly murderous minions_ , he wants to say. 

The scanning, sceptical look Durant gives him doesn't make Draco feel any better. "If you're sure."

Draco's urge to roll his eyes is strong. He thinks Durant's awfully bloody sanctimonious for someone who used to be a fucking Hit Wizard, for Merlin's sake.

"No need to get snarky, you asshole," Durant says, and Draco stills, slamming his Occlumens back into place, tighter than before.

"Stop it," Draco snaps. He's tired and the last thing he wants is Durant poking about in his mind, especially after some of his earlier thoughts. "I need a bloody rest."

Durant laughs and draws his sleeved arm across his sweaty forehead. "I'm just messing with you. You didn't fuck up; I could tell from your face you had a bit of an attitude." He walks back over to his desk and sits down, motioning for Draco to take the chair across from him.

Whether that's true or not, Draco will never really know. He hadn't felt Durant in his mind, but Durant's good enough that he might not have, and the man's playing his own cards close to his chest. Draco's fully aware of that. Still, Draco frowns at him but drops down into the seat, grateful for a moment's respite.

They're interrupted by a knock and the sound of the door opening when Durant says, "Come in." Draco expects to see Granger, but instead, Tom Graves walks into the office. Draco startles, then sits back in his chair, trying to hide his surprise. Draco picks a little at the bandage on his arm. It's much better today, but not fully healed by any means. He has no intention of having anyone look at it. It's itching as it heals, pulling and warping the skin around it. He smoothes his shirtsleeve down over his forearm, buttoning his cuffs.

"No need for alarm, Sergeant Malfoy," Graves says, a faint smile on his face. He looks over to Durant. "Jake, would you mind if I borrowed your protégé for a few moments?"

Durant's eyes flick over to Draco's face. "Not at all, Tom. We were just wrapping up for today."

They weren't, but neither Draco nor Durant are going to oppose the Director of Magical Security when he makes a direct request for Draco's time.

Graves inclines his head, and Draco pushes himself up out of his chair. "Thanks, Durant," Draco says. "Brilliant session as always, you wretched masochist." He's only half-joking.

"I do try." Durant leans back, an amiable smile on his face. "I'll see you tomorrow, Malfoy." He gives Draco a thoughtful look before glancing back towards Graves, and Draco can tell he's as unsettled by Graves' sudden appearance as Draco himself is.

"Walk with me, Malfoy," Graves says. It's more of an order than a request, so Draco, with one last glance back at Durant who's still watching him with a furrowed brow, follows Graves out of the room and through the near empty warren of rooms back to Graves' office, both of them silent. In the halls, the few groups of MACUSA employees they pass disperse when they see Graves coming. Others move to the side or turn and walk slightly out of the way. Draco has the sense that he's swimming alongside a big shark, and he's not sure he likes it. It's certainly familiar, even if Graves is dressed in a sharply tailored suit rather than flowing robes and a serpentine accessory, and Draco can't help but wonder what Graves has in store for him.

Just before they reach his assistant's desk, Graves turns down a small hallway, stopping in a little kitchen area with a sink, a refrigerator and a coffeemaker. 

"Angelica normally does this," Graves says, reaching into the fridge for a bottle of water which he hands to Draco. Draco takes the bottle, even though he doesn't really want it. He sets it on the edge of the counter. "But she's not usually in on Sundays. Would you like a coffee too?"

When Draco nods, Graves pours a mug and pushes it across the counter towards Draco. "Milk's in the fridge if you want it, and sugar's in the cupboard." It gives Draco a chance to observe Graves in his natural habitat, and he's not sure this isn't part of Graves's plan. Draco stays casually alert, bending over to grab the milk from the refrigerator, pouring a splash in and then replacing it as he watches Graves pour another cup for himself. When they both have their coffee, and Draco's sipping at the welcome, creamy bitterness, Graves eyes Draco's sleeve and says, "So. Tell me about your Mark hurting."

Draco flinches, jerking his arm protectively to his chest. A bit of coffee splashes out of his mug, across his hand. "How'd you know about that?"

Graves shrugs, takes a sip of his coffee. "Jake Durant reports directly to me, Sergeant Malfoy, on all of his activities, even those in which he's assisting the British Ministry. He's subtle about details, but I'm good at reading him." He smiles, and there's a chilly fondness to it. "I trained the bastard, after all."

Draco processes this information, now sensing the delicacy of the Director's Legilimens all around him. Fuck, but he's glad he'd kept his Occlumens in place. Draco exhales, then sets his cup of coffee aside. He doesn't want it any longer. "Well, it's none of his business, really. I'm a British citizen, and my Mark was taken in England."

"And yet there are so many repercussions here, wouldn't you say?" Graves finishes his cup, sets it in the sink, and Draco copies him, unsure of what else to do. He picks up the cool bottle of water, gripping tightly in his hand. His Mark throbs dully. 

Graves turns back to him. "Jake mentioned your arm was bleeding. And I could tell you weren't well at Greenpoint." Graves studies Draco carefully. "You were quite close to that spell when it discharged. Manhattan's not that far from Brooklyn, which would place you within a five-mile radius, I'd say. As I understand that Mark, it was used for long-distance communication as well?"

Draco nods, not sure what he's giving away, but too tired to fight. "I suppose. The pain brought me to my knees. And I--" He stops, realising he's trusting Graves, of all people, with private information.

"What?" Graves's quick glance is curious, then he smiles faintly, the slight brush of his Legilimency whispering past Draco. "Ah. You don't trust me, of course. Not really."

"I'm not certain why I should," Draco says, and he gives Graves an even look.

Graves laughs. "You probably shouldn't. Then again, I could be helpful to you at some point." He shrugs. "I suppose it's up to you, Sergeant Malfoy."

Draco studies Graves for a long moment, then he says quietly, "I'd defaced the Mark, and it came back to the surface. That's why it was bleeding."

"I see." Graves is silent, a frown creasing his face. "Let's go into my office," he says finally, and he moves towards the half-open door, motioning for Draco to follow. 

Draco enters the large, windowed room behind Graves. Honestly, he feels a bit like a lapdog, but he doesn't know what else to do, how to escape. And it wouldn't do to be too rude, or to antagonise Graves too much. He's being given a small amount of leeway, but there's only so far Graves will let him go before he bites back. Draco knows that almost instinctively. He's known men like Graves. His father, for one, although he thinks Graves is a hell of a lot more competent than Lucius Malfoy could ever hope to be. For a fleeting moment, Draco wishes Harry were here with him, but then, that would only make things worse perhaps. He sits down in the chair in front of the desk.

"You do know that Harry Potter is no longer your SIO." Graves sits behind his large, opulent desk, setting his water bottle on a coaster. "You report to the Unspeakables now, under the direction of Jake Durant, which means you're fully within in my jurisdiction." 

"I beg your pardon," Draco says, in perhaps a chillier tone than necessary, but he knows he has rights here and he'll be damned if he's going to let Tom Graves step on them. "My direct superior is Hermione Granger, not Unspeakable Durant, and I'm a commissioned Auror of the United Kingdom Department of Magical Law Enforcement. I am not bloody well under your jurisdiction." He hesitates, then adds a half-polite, "Sir."

Graves leans back in his chair, his amusement evident. "When you're here in the MACUSA Department of Magical Law Enforcement, you're part of my office, the same as Jake was when he was working with your Ministry. It's part of our cross-cultural exchange, Sergeant. Our special relationship with our British cousins, if you will." He crosses his arms over his chest, watches Draco. "And, really, you could be working with me, if you wanted."

Draco stills, his eyes narrowing. "Are you trying to recruit me, Director Graves?" _Because that would be bloody stupid of you_ , he thinks. _Harry Potter fought his best friend to try to keep me. Fuck only knows what he'd do if he thought you were trying to entice me further away from him._ The thought makes Draco both ridiculously happy and terribly unsettled at the same time. Harry's not the most stable wizard at times, especially when his ire is up. Sometimes Draco's a little afraid of that magical ripple, the intense power Harry has that can ignite a fire with just the slightest flare of temper. And he doesn't know what might happen if the wrong people find out about that. 

Someone like Tom Graves, for example.

"Perhaps." Graves turns his chair to the side, looking out of the high windows. Draco feels the faint brush of Graves' mind across his again, and he settles his Occlumens deeper across his thoughts. "We do need Legilimens here, Sergeant Malfoy. You'd have a specialist's pay upgrade and freedom to travel, as you wished, as long as you were back when I needed you." He swivels to face Draco, and there's something sharp and fierce in his expression. "I let Jake sow his wild oats in Luxembourg and Paris. London, even, when he asked to be with Harry." 

And there's a cutting acuity to Graves' glance that makes Draco feel as if he can see past Draco's Occlumens, can tell exactly how Draco feels about Harry. It unsettles Draco, particularly when Graves smiles at him, all bright, white teeth and crinkled eyes. 

"Jake likes Europe," Graves says, "and it was good public relations for us and good intel too. But I need people here at home now, and you'd do well in New York. Better than in a service that is too prejudiced against you to recognise your true talents."

Looking down, Draco unscrews the cap to his bottle and takes a sip of the blessedly cool water, mainly to buy time. He's alarmed that he's almost considering Graves' proposal, although he almost can't believe his own thoughts. He wonders if Graves is manipulating him somehow, but the man isn't entirely wrong, Draco thinks, and he finds that realisation horrifying.

As if sensing his hesitation, Graves continues, "You do know that the Death Eater Registry in your country is expected to pass, by a wide margin apparently. And the conditions they're planning for people on the list are becoming more restrictive by the day." He leans forward, his elbows on his desk, his face open, and Draco can't help but think the man's trying to seem honest and aboveboard. "I'm just sharing the intelligence we know, things that even your Head Auror's trying to keep from you."

Draco flicks at the moisture on the bottle, his thoughts grim. He can't look at Graves, doesn't want to give away any more than he has. The very mention of the Registry makes him angry, ferociously so, but he doesn't want to give Graves the satisfaction. Hasn't Draco expected something like this, after all? It's just the other shoe. He can never escape his past, no matter how hard he fights. And then he remembers Harry, the way that he looked at Draco this morning when they'd woken up, as if Draco'd hung the bloody moon, thinks of the way Harry's kisses burn into Draco's skin, hot and bold and fiery, and something settles within him. Things do change, after all. Their relationship, now that it is one, is proof.

"I believe there are also concerns about your father getting a fair trial," Graves says, his voice quiet. "Or so I've been told."

At this, Draco looks up. "What do you know about my father?" He thinks guiltily about the firecalls he hasn't returned. He should have, really; he knows that. His mother must be frantic. He promises himself he'll do it when he's done here, that he'll stop by the wizarding Floo in the hotel. 

Graves leans back in his chair again, and the faintest traces of a smile curve his mouth, and Draco knows he's revealed more than he ought to have. "Not much. But I have heard chatter about his situation in the UK, as the only prisoner who wasn't killed." He watches Draco. "There's talk about how his son the Auror might have protected him. And why he, another former Death Eater, might have done so."

Draco looks away, the weight of Britain suddenly back on his shoulders. He hadn't realised how much space he's had to breathe until now, how much he's let go of the expectations on him, even with the return of his Mark, how open he and Harry can be. Although they've been in New York for only a week, he's not felt this lightness before, this sense of disappearing into a vast city of people, steel, and glass. The thought of returning to London, to the small society who knows his name only as that of a Death Eater, suddenly terrifies him. And he will have to go back--won't he?

"Why me?" Draco asks after a moment. "I'm nothing." And Draco believes that, deep down inside. He puts on a bravado. Always has, even in Slytherin. But all he's ever had going for him is being a Malfoy. His father pissed that away in the War, and now the one identity Draco'd always been able to count on is fucking worthless. It's a millstone, dragging him deeper and deeper into the mire of public disdain.

"Jake says you're a powerful Legilimens," Graves is looking right at him, and Draco can feel the tendrils of thought reaching across the desk. "We could train you here. You could work with us, and go back if you get tired of us."

Somehow Draco senses that it might be more complicated than that. But then, he's never been courted as an asset before. He's horrified, and oddly pleased at the same time. Still, he thinks of Harry, thinks of what Harry would say, how Harry would feel if he thought Draco was even considering it. 

And Draco doesn't want to lose this newness between them, this fragile, careful intimacy that's developed. He looks at Graves, and he shakes his head. "I don't think I'm interested, sir." 

"You're making a mistake, Malfoy," Graves says, and Draco's certain he's not mistaking the quiet threat in Graves' voice. "We're the right fit for you. You won't be given the freedom in England that you have here."

Draco stands up. "Thank you for the offer," he says, as politely as he can. "But I think I know the right fit for me."

He's halfway to the door when Graves says, "You're going to be asked to interview Eddie Durant tomorrow, Jake's brother."

Draco pauses, turns to look at the director. "As long as the order comes from my SIO, I'll be happy to follow it."

"I've got a call in to Granger." The director's watching him, stone-faced. "Harry can't protect you, you know. Not from who you used to be."

That cuts, deep and to the quick. Draco stares back at Graves, incensed. "I think," Draco says after a moment's pause to master his flare of rage, "that I'd rather trust Harry Potter than you, sir." He meets Graves' gaze evenly. "I'm sure you'll understand."

"Oh, I think I do." Graves' mouth is tight. "Perhaps you'll change your mind down the road, though. I'm no Seer, but I think you might."

"We'll see." Draco inclines his head. "Have a good Sunday, sir."

He slams the door a little harder than he ought to on his way out.

***

Harry's sat on the upper open deck of the Circle Line boat, alongside Hermione, watching Ron lean over the railing, a camera in hand, as he snaps photographs of Manhattan in the distance. Neither Harry nor Hermione had wanted to go on the city cruise--Harry has a natural objection to anything touristy, and Hermione's focussed on work, Sunday afternoon or not. Still, Ron had put his foot down and insisted they go with him, and when Ron wants something that badly, Hermione and Harry have both learnt to just give in.

"This is brilliant," Ron says, the breeze from the Upper Bay ruffling his already touselled hair. It glints red-gold in the sunlight, and Harry swears he can see more freckles popping out across Ron's pale cheeks by the minute. It's hot even with the slight bit of wind off the water, and the late afternoon sun's beating down brutally. Harry can smell the faint tropical scent of Hermione's sun charms; at least she had the common sense to cast them over her nearly bare shoulders. Ron's nose is already starting to get pink. "I told you two it'd be great fun." He drops his camera when they hit the crest of a wave, but catches it with a discreet Summoning charm before it can hit the water.

Hermione gives her husband an exasperated, if affectionate, look, the thin, loose ends of the black and white printed scarf wrapped around her hairline whipping in the wind behind her, her tight curls lifting up at the edges, then she turns back to Harry. "Jake says Eddie's responding to the potions Bonavista is giving him."

"That's good." Harry leans forward, his elbows on his knees. He can feel the warmth of the sun on the back of his neck between his needs-to-be-trimmed hairline and the thick-stitched jersey edging of his faded red t-shirt. "I like Eddie. He's an arsehole, but one of the good ones." 

"Graves is going to want us to put Malfoy on him tomorrow morning," Hermione says. "If I know him, at least." 

Harry nods. He's expected as much. "It's your call," he says. "You're his SIO, now." And he's trying not to be bitter about that still. He really is, but he can't help himself. Not entirely. He knows it hadn't been Hermione's fault, that Graves and Gawain and Saul fucking Croaker had made the agreement, but they're not here for Harry to be angry with. Also he wouldn't have Malfoy as his boyfriend now if she hadn't taken over, Harry thinks. So he supposes he should be grateful. He's just finding it a bit difficult at the moment.

Hermione doesn't say anything; she just rubs at her elbow, looking out over the water towards the tall, shining Manhattan skyline. They're off to themselves, thank Merlin, Harry thinks. All the other tourists are crowding the other side of the boat, peering at the Statue of Liberty rising up out of the harbour, pale green against the bright blue, nearly cloudless July sky. 

"I know you tried," Harry says after a moment. "But you can't tell me you'd be happy if this happened when you were leading a team."

"Probably not." Hermione pulls her sunglasses down from where they've been perched in her hair, settles them against her nose. "But I'd try not to be such a prick about it." She looks over at him; Harry hates that he can't see her eyes through the dark lenses of her sunglasses. Hermione glances away again, towards the prow of the boat as a whitecap breaks around it. "It's not as if it's going to be the end of the world for the two of you," she says with a sigh. "Malfoy's right. At least he can shag you with impunity." Her mouth purses a bit; Harry knows she still doesn't approve, not completely, that she's worried even, but he doesn't care. 

Harry thinks about how Draco had stretched back across the bed this morning after his shower, how he'd spread his legs for Harry, draped them over Harry's shoulder as Harry'd knelt between his thighs, sucking Draco until he was crying out, his whole body spasming. God, Harry's completely arse over tit for the bastard, isn't he? He stares out over the water, back towards Manhattan, wondering how Draco's doing with Jake, wishing that Draco was here with him, on his other side, their hands entwined. 

"You're going to get a request, by the way." Hermione turns towards Harry on the uncomfortable bench seat. "Saul firecalled this afternoon. Achilleus Avery filed a request with the Wizengamot just before close of day Friday to move Lucius Malfoy from our cells to the ones at the International Wizarding Courts of Justice in Brussels, putting him under their control prior to his hearing."

That surprises Harry. "You're kidding." 

"You didn't know?" Hermione peers at him over the rims of her sunglasses.

Harry shakes his head. "Draco mentioned he'd missed some firecalls from Avery and his mum yesterday," Harry says, and Hermione raises her eyebrow before pushing her sunglasses back up. 

"Draco," she says. "You're calling him Draco now." 

Harry feels his face heat up. "So?"

Ron leans back in his seat, then glances over at both of them. "Harry finally started calling the Ferret by his first name?"

"Evidently," Hermione says, and she exchanges a long look with Ron. 

"Knock it off, both of you," Harry says, and he feels oddly on display in a way he doesn't particularly like. 

"Well," Ron says, and he looks a bit disturbed, although Harry can tell Ron's trying to hide it as best he can. "He is dating him. I suppose it's bloody ridiculous of him to be calling him by his last name now. It'd be as absurd as me calling you Granger." 

Hermione nudges Ron with her elbow. "You know that gets me all worked up when you do," she says lightly. Ron just wiggles his eyebrows at her, and she laughs and glances away, out over the water. Ron's watching her with an utterly besotted look on his face, and Harry wonders how they do it, how they manage to be so mad about each other after all these years. He wants Draco to look at him the way Ron's gazing at Hermione. Not just for a fortnight or a few months. But forever. 

That thought takes Harry's breath away, and he presses his lips together, a fluttery tightness in his chest. He grips the edge of the bench, stares out at the tall, sunlit glass towers of the Financial District, rising up above Battery Park. He wants so much from Draco. More than he can ever truly expect, and that brings its own soft ache of sadness, twining its way through the complicated tangle of feelings that always seeps forward when he thinks about Draco and the future. 

"We should go to dinner tonight," Ron says. "All of us." He gives Harry a sideways look, over his wife's head. "With the Ferret."

"Don't call him that," Harry says with a frown. "And have you lost your mind? The two of you hate each other."

Ron tugs at his ear. "Yeah. Well. _You_ don't hate him." He gives Harry a long, steady look, and Harry can feel his face flush. "So."

There's an awkward silence between the three of them, Ron and Hermione both watching Harry in a way he finds a bit too sharp and knowing. "It's not like that," Harry says finally. As much as he might want it to be.

"You're dating Draco Malfoy, mate." Ron lifts his camera back up, snaps a picture of Harry scowling at him. "I think it's exactly like that." He turns the camera on his wife. "So maybe dinner, yeah, babe?"

"Maybe." Hermione smiles at Ron for the camera, then leans in to kiss his cheek. "Let's decide when we get back to the hotel." 

Ron grins at her, then takes another photograph. "I might be too ready to shag you across the bed to make a decision like that."

Hermione rolls her eyes. "You wish." But her face is fond and the way she's looking at Ron again makes it clear that the option isn't off the table. Not entirely. Especially not when her husband kisses the tip of her nose. 

An odd, uncomfortable warmth spreads through Harry's heart. 

"Anyway," Hermione says, turning back to Harry, "speaking of Malfoy, they're going to want you to testify in regards to Avery's motion. Since you're the SIO of the team that arrested him."

"It's usually the arresting Auror who'd handle that," Harry points out. 

Hermione pushes her sunglasses back up on her head and gives him an even look. "Malfoy can't speak to this one. Not with his father being the defendant making the request."

She's right. Harry knows it. And he doesn't think Draco will object to Harry taking that role. But still. It's the principle of the matter. "I want him there too." Harry's not going to do anything in regards to Lucius fucking Malfoy without Draco by his side. He owes that to Draco at least.

It takes a moment, but Hermione nods. "I can't think that would be a problem. As long as you're taking point, and he's only there as an observer."

Harry hunches forward. Christ, but he's not looking forward to this. "What do you think about moving him?"

"It's not a horrible idea," Hermione admits. She glances over at Harry. He can see Ron looking at her, his face sober. "Between what happened in our holding cells and this recent Greenpoint incident, I'd be far happier to have his safety taken on by the International Wizarding Court. Peasegood might have been our fault, but if Dolohov has a Hand of Glory…" She trails off, and then she sighs. "It's classified," she says, "and I shouldn't be telling either of you this, but Lucius Malfoy's Mark went off Friday morning as well. Not as badly as Draco's--"

Fuck, Harry thinks, nothing could have been as bad as that. "No bleeding and excruciating pain?" He tries to keep his voice even, but it wobbles a bit, and Hermione presses her knee against his. It's warm and comforting. 

"Just enough to scare the hell out of him," she says. "A sting, mostly. No blood." She pushes her set of three thin gold bangles up her narrow, brown wrist. "He was at a further distance. However the Mark works, I suspect there's a proximity value to it. Besides, if Dolohov caused it, then we don't even know how skilled he was. He might have flubbed the charm."

Harry tries to suppress the shudder that goes through him at the memory of Draco in pain. He closes his eyes and he can see the mangled, bloody scabbing across Draco's arm, and he wants to find Dolohov right here and now and ram his wand through the sodding bastard's throat.

"Can the holding cells in Brussels withstand a Hand of Glory if they come after him?" Harry asks, looking over at Hermione. The sunlight's bright against his eyes. 

Hermione hesitates. "Better than we can," she says after a moment. "Their facility's the equivalent of Azkaban or Oudepoort here. They've failsafes against that sort of thing. I think that's why Avery's recommending it to Malfoy Senior."

"And he's all right with that?" Harry's a bit dubious; he can't imagine Draco's father wanting to be moved to a secure facility like the one in Brussels.

"No Dementors," Hermione points out. "And less chance of being killed by one of his associates."

Valid point, Harry thinks. Lucius Malfoy's pragmatic if nothing else. 

They're silent for a moment as the boat turns around the tip of Battery Park, Governor's Island to their backs, the East River in front of them. 

Harry remembers how the Morsmordre had looked, hanging in the air just three nights ago. "Everything's so bloody different now," he says, and Hermione follows his gaze. "Something about that Morsmordre…" Harry trails off.

"Makes it more real?" Hermione asks softly, and Harry nods. "This isn't going to help opposition to the Death Eater Registry," she says. "Saul said today's _Prophet_ was going after the Morsmordre, giving Marchbanks and Harkaway half the column space. They're wanting more restrictions now. A wider swathe of families added to their damned list." She looks over at Harry. "The article wasn't incredibly kind to you, either."

"Whinging about my team, I'm certain." Harry heaves a sigh and stares out over the choppy water. The wind's starting to pick up; it pushes his fringe over the rims of his glasses. Harry doesn't care. "How many times did it mention Draco?"

Hermione doesn't say anything for a moment. Harry glances over at her. She's frowning, her lip between her teeth, her gaze fixed on the ferry terminal across the river. 

"Well?" Harry asks. He doesn't like the way she's looking. 

She glances over at him, then says, "Orla Quirke wrote an entire side article on him. His whole history, his father's connections to the case, half-implying Malfoy was involved." 

"That's bollocks." Harry scowls at her. "He's a sodding Auror--"

"I know." Hermione folds her arms across her chest, presses her lips together before she says, "I think they're going to tear him down as best they can, Harry. He's the one thing that could stand in their way."

Harry's silent for a moment. "I won't let them."

"You might not be able to stop this, love." Hermione touches Harry's knee, just below the edge of his shorts. Draco'd be appalled if he knew Harry was out in them and not for running. That thought makes Harry smile, but only a bit. He's worried now, and his chest feels tight again, but in a harsher, more stomach-churning way. 

"People are afraid," Hermione says. "The picture of the Morsmordre in the _Prophet_..." She looks back out over the river. "It was terrifying, Harry. Even for me and I know what's happening. But to see it again?" She falls silent. 

They all do. And the boat plows through the river, excited voices echoing all around them as the Brooklyn Bridge looms over them. 

"Jesus," Ron finally murmurs from Hermione's other side. "I'd hoped we were all done with this."

Hermione slips her fingers through his, cradles his hand against her thigh. "We've made it through worse."

Ron's looking at Harry, his gaze going to Harry's forehead. "Do you think he's coming back?" His voice sounds tired more than anything. 

"I don't know," Harry says. He touches the scar, feels its slick puffiness beneath his fingertips. "Eight years. It seems like forever. Like he couldn't."

"But it only took him ten years last time." Hermione watches Harry, a worried frown on her face. 

Harry rests his elbows on his thighs, presses his folded hands to his mouth, stares out over the railing of the ship. The shadow of the Bridge crosses over the prow, and Harry looks up at the heavy brown stonework and the thick steel cables above them. He's terrified, and he doesn't want to admit that. He doesn't want to go through this again, doesn't want to have to fight those damned battles again, doesn't want to have to die for other people. 

"Fuck, what I wouldn't do," Harry says after a moment, "to hide out here with Draco. Not to have to go back to any of this shite." His voice cracks, as much as tries to keep it from doing so. "I'm so goddamned tired…" Harry drops his hands, lets his head bend. "I just want to be normal," he whispers. "I just want to stop being the fucking Saviour of the Sodding Wizarding World. Just once." His shoulders ache with the weight of it all. "I fucking died last time. What's going to happen if it starts all over again?" He can't stand that thought. "Sirius died. Tonks died. Remus died. Fred died. What if we die? Or more people we love?" 

_Draco_ , his mind whispers, and Harry can't think of that or the fear he's held deep inside of him since they were woken up in the wee hours of Friday morning. He's already seen him in hospital once. 

"I couldn't bear it if…" Harry breaks off. He glances towards the back of the boat, hot tears pricking at his eyes. He blinks them away.

"Draco," Hermione says, her voice soft. Harry can't look at her, can't even acknowledge what she's said, what she means, what he's admitting to in his own quiet way. "Oh, Harold."

His friends are silent, and then Ron moves, coming over to Harry's other side, and he and Hermione slip their arms around Harry, hold him as best they can.

"It'll be all right, mate," Ron says quietly. "Whatever's going to happen, you've got us, yeah?" He looks across Harry at Hermione, and she nods. Ron glances back at Harry. "And Malfoy, too. And I reckon Zabini and Parkinson and Whitaker and, fuck, Jake as well, even if he is narked off at you. None of us are going anywhere, Harry." Ron's fingers are on Harry's cheek, turning Harry's head to face him. His eyes are bright and fierce and full of pain. "I lost my brother. I'm not fucking losing you." Ron's mouth tightens and then he gives Harry a faint smile. "Or anyone else that you give a fuck about. Even if that means the Ferret."

Harry chokes back a laugh. "Thanks, mate."

"Although fuck Lucius Malfoy," Ron says, considering. "That goddamned bastard can burn in hell for all I care." He hesitates. "Or Belgium. That'd be okay too, although I feel sorry for the Belgians."

The boat moves on, the wind ruffling through their hair, the city slipping by slowly, with each bump of the prow against the waves.

And, together, arms wrapped around each other, three old friends allow themselves a moment to grieve.

***

It's half-eleven and they're just on the dessert course, and Harry swears it's been near four hours of small plates and a visual and sensual artistry that he has to admit is somewhat lost on him. He's enjoyed some of the taste combinations--the bacon and brioche were particularly delicious, much to his surprise, and Draco's quiet sighs with each mouthful of the foie gras had been nothing short of dead arousing--but in truth Harry's been much more delighted by Ron and Hermione's decision at the last minute to secure another seat at the table and include Draco in their meal.

When Harry'd told Draco about the invitation to Per Se, after Draco'd stumbled in, exhausted from an afternoon sparring with Jake, Harry had received a surprised look in return. Harry'd spent a long moment hoping Draco wouldn't refuse because Harry couldn't have explained to Draco how important this dinner with his friends and his new boyfriend was to Harry, but it meant everything and Harry hadn't realised that until Draco was standing in front of him, staring at Harry, looking utterly perplexed. 

"Have you any idea," Draco had said finally, "how long it takes to get a table there? Pansy's been talking about going to Per Se since we arrived; her sister can't even get a reservation. How the hell did Weasley get one overnight?" 

Harry'd just shrugged. To be honest, he's no idea, but he suspects it has something to do with the way Ron makes friends everywhere he goes. It's part of what makes him a good businessman, Harry thinks, and it's a talent Harry doesn't have. Ron can talk himself into pretty much any place; it's bloody impressive sometimes.

"I can't believe they added a setting--" Draco'd snapped his fingers. "Like that." His eyes had widened. "Merlin, Pans is going to hate me." Frankly, Harry hadn't thought Draco'd sounded terribly worried about that, and he suspects Parkinson's going to get an extensive report the next time Draco sees her just to make her jealous, which amuses Harry, if he's honest. Draco'd taken a moment to shake his head in wonder before beginning to panic over whether he'd had anything to wear, even though Harry knows there's a formal suit hanging in their closet just in case something came up.

They'd been in the lift, going down to meet Ron and Hermione in the lobby when Draco'd turned to him and said "You realise Weasley's overcompensating, yes?"

Harry'd just raised his eyebrow. "What?"

Draco'd watched himself in the mirrored brass doors, straightening his grey silk tie. "Without wine, he'll be paying two hundred Dragots at least per plate."

"Fuck me, he's not," Harry'd said without thinking, and Draco'd just given him an amused look in the lift doors. It's not that Harry hasn't eaten in restaurants that expensive, but usually it's on some diplomat's expense account. "Really?"

"Really," Draco'd said, as the lift opened, and they'd stepped out to find Ron and Hermione already waiting for them.

Now, on course thirteen or so of a tasting menu, Harry was sure it was rather a bit more two hundred Dragots. From caviar and oysters to lobster tails and tiny, exquisite cuts of beef, fancy salts, elaborate souffles, and choice wines, Ron's spared no expense in this intricate and yet enjoyable menu of small plates. Maybe Draco's right; maybe Ron's perhaps overcompensating for his newfound fortune, but Harry can't fault him. He's happy that Ron's found prosperity and happiness, even if there's a huge part of him that still misses him in the Auror force, that, if Harry's truly honest, secretly resents Ron just a bit for leaving him in training. 

Ron and Hermione have been taking turns asking the waiters questions about the origins of ingredients and the people who produced them, and the entire meal's started to feel a bit like an Herbology lesson wrapped up in a doll's tea party to Harry. Draco's stayed rigidly correct and dimmed, somehow, from how Harry sees him when they're alone, his uncertainty obvious to Harry, if not to the other two. Harry knows he's nervous to be dining with Harry's friends, the same ones he'd harassed in their school days, especially as Harry's new boyfriend. And yeah, Draco _is_ Harry's boyfriend, Ron's bloody right about that, and Harry wants to crow every time he looks over at Draco and realises that whatever this is between the two of them is real. And official. Enough so that Ron and Hermione are at least making an attempt to sit at a table with Draco and Harry, however much everyone's having to behave, all of them trying to get along for Harry's sake. 

Ron pokes at an elaborate assembly of chocolate, hot oil, and a herbal ice cream. "You know, I think Luna may have worked with this Thomas Keller bloke." It takes Harry a moment before he recalls that Keller's the wizard who owns Per Se, according to what Hermione'd said when they'd taken their table.

Draco looks up. "Lovegood?"

"Yeah." Ron glances over at him. "Why?"

"She's my third cousin." Draco picks up his own spoon. "Father and Xenophilius are second cousins themselves. They loathe each other though, so I didn't realise Luna was doing restaurant work. I don't see her very often." He hesitates, then lifts his chin, and Harry knows he's about to say something he's not certain he should. "We got to know each other a bit when the Dark Lord threw her into our dungeons." 

The table's silent for an awkward moment, then Ron says, "Oh," and scratches his ear, then he looks over at Hermione. "So has she been here in the States?"

Harry reaches over and takes Draco's hand in his, squeezing it lightly. He doesn't hide it beneath the table, and he knows both Hermione and Ron are watching them and pretending not to. Draco gives him a quick, faint smile, letting his fingers twine through Harry's. There's so much about that time Draco's reliving; Harry of all people knows that. He can feel Draco push lightly against his mind, recognises the soft touch of Legilimency from his time with Jake. Harry lets his Occlumens drop a little. 

_I'm proud of you,_ he thinks, and he feels a warm seep of slightly irritated fondness from Draco, and Draco's fingers tighten around Harry's.

Hermione pulls her curious gaze back to Ron and shakes her head. "I don't think Luna's been here. Not recently. Although she did spend some time working with Heston Blumenthal in Australia." She eyes her husband thoughtfully, before letting her gaze drift back over to Draco, who's sitting tense in his seat, staring down at the chocolate pudding in a stemmed glass in front of him, his slender fingers still tangled with Harry's wider ones. She looks towards Harry, and he frowns at her before she takes a spoon of her own dessert, a caramel, chocolate and hazelnut confection. Hermione almost groans with delight. "Bloody hell, I could have eaten just this tonight and been happy. Why are you asking about Luna, love?'

"She's been firecalling with George again about wizarding sensory experiences and magical ingredients," Ron says, taking another spoon of ice cream into his mouth. "He's thinking about a new line. Damn, this is brill. I've no idea what it is, but I like it."

"Thyme, olive, and chocolate, Ronald," Hermione says, glancing over to Draco once more. Draco pulls his hand away from Harry's, and Harry misses the touch immediately. Christ, but he wants to spend all his time wrapped around Draco's body, their skin warm against each other's. Being in love with someone has never been like this; Jake and Harry had been physical--Jesus, they'd been physical, spending most of their time together fucking rather athletically--but Harry'd never felt the intense need to touch him, to feel the smooth warmth of his skin the way he craves Draco's. He knows he staring at Draco, can see the soft flush rising on his cheeks, the sharpness of his look warning Harry off.

"How's yours, Malfoy?" Hermione asks.

"Exceptional." Draco takes a mouthful of firm chocolate pudding out of his glass, licking it off the spoon, and Harry's distracted by the long, sensual movement of his throat as he swallows. "Chocolate with olive notes. Fruity, but slick, and the mouthfeel is divine."

The first three courses--there've been so damned many, Harry thinks--had passed in stilted silence except for the service, with Harry doing everything he could to get a conversation started that would hold up between all four of them. Gradually, however, Hermione and Draco had found their way into a shared vocabulary similar to potions analysis for the courses, nodding and occasionally gasping at the play of flavours and fullness of scent and taste. Whilst they tasted and observed, Harry and Ron traded talk about Quidditch and drank several glasses of wine, marvelling at but also faintly intimidated by Draco and Hermione's insights. This dynamic had pulled their little group together, however temporarily, and the fragile truce is holding.

Ron pokes at his pudding. "It looks a bit like troll bogey, but I'd eat it again." He has a smudge of chocolate next to his mouth, and Hermione pulls her napkin from her lap to wipe it off.

Harry takes the moment to look over at Draco. "Okay?" he mouths, and he receives a wryly quirked lip and a quick nod in response.

Poised upright despite all the wine they've drunk, Draco's fragile and birdlike crisp in his dark suit and ivory shirt, his tightly Windsor-knotted tie the exact color of his eyes. Across from Harry, Ron is terribly well-put together in a deep blue three-piece summer suit that makes his hair look fiery with a pocket square that matches Hermione's dress. Next to him, Hermione looks bloody gorgeous in a deep pink dress with an artfully frayed hem and high pink heels with red soles. When Draco'd asked her how she'd got an exact match, she'd told him she has a little eighteenth century haberdasher's spell for shoes and leather to match. Draco'd been curious and asked if she'd share it with him. 

Hermione had uttered a careful, "Maybe," for which Harry'd been glad--she doesn't share that spell with anyone, but perhaps Draco'll be the first. Harry knows that he might be a tad bit underdressed in his simple jacket and trousers, but he doesn't care. Ron'd told him this wasn't a starchy restaurant, despite its reputation, and he'd taken it to heart. There's nothing Harry likes better than eating excellent food in a relatively relaxed manner.

And the setting couldn't be more beautiful: they've watched the sun set in the sky over Central Park as the waves of tiny, amazing plated creations arrive. The hush of the dining room's broken only by a light hum of conversation and the careful clatter of cutlery. As evening deepened, the rich brown and white pattern of the carpet had emerged. And now the light from the lamps over the tables is warm and soothing, but not overly so. Harry's feeling brilliantly well-fed and relaxed, perhaps also a bit sloshed, but not overly so.

After another round of sorbets, brandies, and then mint tea, Ron discreetly settles the bill, and their little group rises from the table that's served as their culinary oasis for the past four and a half hours. 

"Have they a Floo?" Draco asks quietly, as Hermione inclines her head to him. "I'd heard the Time Warner Building had magical contractors as well as Muggle." Same as the Woolworth Building, Harry thinks. He's fascinated by how that's so common in New York buildings, this shared Muggle and magical space, despite the history in the country of being separate--far more so even than Britain's been in the past. America's an odd place, Harry thinks, and New York even more so, but he loves this city more than he'll admit, even to himself. 

"I think it's in the back," Hermione says, eyeing the long dining room as Ron says something to the waiter. "I'm pretty sure it's the strange door marked staff near the loo."

Harry takes a moment to pull Draco to his side, slipping an arm around his lower back. Draco doesn't react immediately, but he shoots him a sharp look a few moments later. Harry's too tipsy to care, and he smiles back.

"Let's take a cab," Ron says, stepping back over to them. "I've had them call one for us. It'll be waiting downstairs."

Hermione rolls her eyes. "Ronald."

Draco stiffens at Harry's side. "How terribly authentic," he murmurs. He says something else underneath his breath, and Harry swears he hears something about "bloody Muggle death machines," but that last glass of wine's relaxed Harry a bit and he might be imagining things.

"It'll be fun." Ron starts to walk through the maze of tables. "I promised Dad I'd try one out, anyway."

"So you'll force us all into one," Hermione says with a sigh. "Honestly, you could take one on your own tomorrow--"

Ron wraps an arm around his wife's waist, leaning in to kiss her cheek. "You know I like being adventurous." 

Draco just gives Harry a look, and Harry laughs. "They're always like this," Harry says in Draco's ear. "You'll get used to it. A bit."

"I'm certain I'll never." But Draco smiles at Harry, and it's soft and warm and makes Harry's stomach flutter deliciously. 

The cab's waiting downstairs, bright yellow and so very Muggle. Harry slips into the back seat, in between Hermione and Draco whilst Ron climbs into the front seat, cheerful and excited, letting the cabbie know he's never ridden in a car like this, which delights the cabbie to no end, enough so that he starts telling Ron about the entire New York taxi system. Ron's captivated, reaching into his pocket to pull out his ever-present notebook to scrawl down what the cabbie's telling him.

"You're brilliant," Ron keeps exclaiming, and Harry can hear Draco snort beside him. 

Draco's gripping the door tightly, and Harry leans in, whispers into his ear, "Have you never ridden in a cab before?"

"Whyever would I, Potter?" Draco asks, and Harry knows his last name means that Draco's nervous. Harry doesn't entirely blame him. The cabbie's zipping through the Manhattan traffic, surprisingly heavy at this hour on a Sunday, but they are in Midtown, so perhaps that's to be expected. "Any place I've needed to go I could Floo, Apparate or fly to, so…" His fingers tighten on the side of the door, knuckles going pale as the cabbie slams on the brakes.

Harry glances over at Hermione. She's pulled out her mobile and is going through her texts, frowning down at the bright screen. Hermione'd learnt early on to block out Ron when she wants to; frankly Harry thinks that's the best way to have a relationship the length of Ron and Hermione's. He turns back to Draco. 

"We'll be fine," Harry says, trying to be comforting, and that earns him a scathing glare. 

"I'm quite aware of that, you idiot," Draco says, and Harry hides a smile. He likes the sharp edges of Draco, the way he uses them to hide how vulnerable he's feeling. Harry settles his hand on Draco's thigh, his fingers tracing small circles through the thin wool of Draco's trousers. He can feel Draco relax beneath his palm. 

"Better?" Harry asks, and Draco just turns his head, looks out the window at the passing buildings and the flash of streetlights at each corner. 

Harry keeps his hand on Draco's thigh as the city blocks slip by, each one taking them closer to the Financial District and their hotel. Harry can smell the crisp scent of Draco's cologne, feel the brush of Draco's hair against his cheek when Draco shifts beside him, the press of Draco's body against his. Harry lets his fingers slide higher, slips them almost between Draco's thighs, the shadows of the cab hiding his hand.

Draco doesn't object. Not until Harry's fingertips press up against his bollocks, circling lightly, hefting them against Draco's trousers. It's only then that Draco breathes in, quick and fast, and his hand catches Harry's wrist. He looks back at Harry, frowns, but Harry just lets his finger trail along the line of Draco's prick. 

"Stop," Draco murmurs, but his hand loosens around Harry's, and his eyes are bright in the passing flicker of shadows and light.

Harry smoothes another finger down Draco's cock. "Yeah?" His voice is soft, barely noticeable. He leans over and nips Draco's earlobe. "Would you rather I tell you how much I want to suck you off right here?" The words are soft huffs against Draco's ear, and Harry can feel Draco shiver with each one. 

"That's inappropriate," Draco whispers, but he turns his head, lets his lips brush lightly against Harry's, and Harry can barely contain the shudder of want that goes through him like electricity, swelling his own prick.

Draco shifts his hips, opens his thighs a bit wider, presses his knee against Harry's. Harry palms Draco's cock through Draco's trousers, feeling it get harder at his touch. "Terribly," Harry says under his breath. "But I don't see you objecting."

"But I am." Draco leans closer, and his breath skims across Harry's cheek. "I'm also not wearing pants, so interpret that as you will, Harry Potter."

Christ, Harry wonders if it'd be inappropriate to shag Draco across Hermione's lap. He's entirely certain she'd think it was. His breath catches as Draco's fingers brush his inner thigh. "Jesus, Draco," he says in an exhale.

"You do both know I can hear you?" Hermione doesn't even look up from her mobile. "So if you could hold off until the hotel, that'd be brilliant, thanks."

Draco chokes back a laugh, and his hand disappears, much to Harry's disappointment. "Later," he whispers in Harry's ear. 

Harry's never been in a fucking cab that felt so much like a ride through eternity.

When they pull up outside the Millenium Hilton, Harry practically pushes Draco out of the door, barely waiting for Ron and Hermione to get out before he says, "We're going upstairs." He doesn't give them a chance to answer; he just pulls Draco towards the revolving door, Hermione's laugh echoing behind them. 

"Merlin, Harry, have you lost your mind?" Draco asks as Harry pushes him into the lift, hitting the button for the forty-ninth floor before Harry presses himself against Draco, catching his mouth with his. Draco's hands settle on Harry's waist and he opens himself up to the kiss, his breath hitching softly when Harry rolls hips forward, ruts up against Draco's prick. 

Somehow Harry ends up with Draco's legs wrapped around his hips, Draco's hands tangled in his hair as they kiss, all teeth and tongues and soft, eager gasps. Harry doesn't even care when the lift doors open that there's a well-dressed couple stepping out of another lift in the hallway, watching them in surprise. Harry just walks out, Draco's face pressed against his neck, and he smiles at the couple and says, "Good night," before carrying Draco around the corner to their room. 

"Room key," Harry manages to get out between kisses, and Draco fumbles in his pocket, pulls out the small rectangle of plastic and, after a fumble or two, gets it into the lock, and Harry hears the quiet rattle and clunk of the tumblers falling into place. He opens the door and he stumbles in, nearly dropping Draco when his foot hits a soft package just inside the room. 

"What the hell was that?" Draco asks, pulling his mouth away from Harry's. He lets his legs slide down Harry's body, and Harry protests as Draco steps away, leaning down to pick up the small red pouch Harry'd nearly kicked beneath the sofa. 

Harry flips on the closest light and takes the small bag from Draco. The Ministry of Magic's seal is on it. "Diplomatic pouch," he says. He looks over at Draco. "Have you firecalled your mum yet?"

"This afternoon." Draco slides out of his jacket, tosses it onto the desk chair. He loosens his tie. "Avery wants to have Father moved to Brussels," he says. "Why?"

Harry opens the pouch and pulls out a small, flat cassette tape, along with a folded, wax-sealed piece of parchment. He hands them both to Draco, watches as he breaks the seal and reads the document. "I'm being called to testify in front of the hearing for your father. Since you can't as arresting officer." He hesitates, then adds. "Obviously."

"But this is for both of us." Draco lowers the parchment, and Harry nods. 

"I asked Hermione to arrange it this afternoon," Harry admits. "I thought it'd take her longer, but...." He rubs the back of his neck, watching Draco carefully. "You don't look happy."

Draco doesn't answer for a moment. He just folds the document back up and hands it to Harry. "It's fine," he says finally. "I just didn't expect to be going back for this."

Harry sets the Portkey and the parchment back on the desk. "Did I do the wrong thing?"

"No." Draco runs his hands over his face, through his hair. "Mother wanted me to come. I assumed I couldn't." He looks over at Harry, obviously unsettled. "Thank you?"

And yet Harry gets the distinct impression that he's fucked something up. "Hey," he says, catching Draco's wrist and pulling him up against him. "Is this you worried about seeing your dad again?"

Draco's silent, then he sighs. "Maybe." He looks at Harry. "It's not like we don't have a complicated relationship at the best of times, and after Friday…" His hand settles on his left forearm where Harry knows the Mark's risen up again, black and viciously twisted across his skin.

Harry watches him. "We don't have to go. I'll tell the Wizengamot to fuck off--"

"You're an imbecile." But Draco's voice is warm, warmer than it'd been. He sighs again, walks over to the window to look out on the city. It's never dark here, even at midnight, not really. Harry moves closer, wraps his arms around Draco's waist, pulls Draco against him as he rests his chin on Draco's shoulder. Draco's hands settle over his, and they stand there for a moment, together. Harry can see the faint outlines of their reflection in the glass. 

"Do you want to stay?" Harry asks finally. "I'll go on my own--"

Draco shakes his head, cutting Harry off. His hair's soft against Harry's cheek; Harry can smell the faint scent of his shampoo. "No," Draco says quietly. His fingers smoothe across Harry's knuckles. "I should be there. You're right."

"Not always." Harry turns his head, studies the curves and angles of Draco's profile. He wonders if Draco knows how beautiful he is, pale and silver-gilt in the city light, like a modern god surveying his dominion from a steel and glass Olympus. "Didn't you know I'm a giant cock-up?" 

That makes Draco laugh, a soft huff in the silence of the room. "You are," he says, and he looks over at Harry, then he leans in, lets his lips ghost across Harry's. "But so am I, evidently."

Christ, Harry loves this man. Draco'll break his heart one day, Harry's certain of that, and Harry knows his friends worry, even as they're doing their best to be supportive. But right now, Harry can't imagine anything he wants more than to wrap his body around Draco Malfoy's and lose himself in Draco's soft, gentle kisses. 

Draco turns in Harry's arms, slides his hands up over Harry's shoulders as his mouth opens up to Harry's. They kiss for what seems like forever to Harry, until they're both breathless, their mouths wet, their swollen pricks pressing against one another through the wool of their trousers. 

"You have on too many clothes," Draco whispers against Harry's lips. "I like you best naked beneath me."

"Do you?" Harry lets his hands slip down Draco's hips, over the soft curve of Draco's perfect arse. He kneads at it with his knuckles, pulls Draco's arsecheeks apart. His finger works the fabric of Draco's trousers though his crease. "Definitely no pants." 

"I told you," Draco says, and he catches Harry's lip between his teeth, sucks at it before letting it pop free. "Ruins the line of these trousers."

"Or you're just a little slaggy," Harry says with a laugh. He kisses Draco, long and slow, before whispering, "But only for me, you gorgeous bastard."

Draco pulls back, looks at Harry, a small smile playing across his mouth. "Maybe a bit of that too." He catches Harry's hand, pulls him towards the bedroom. "Right now there's something I'd really like you to do."

Harry's watching the shift of Draco's arse in those trousers of his, cut so tight and perfectly to fit that delicious bum of his. "Yeah? What?"

And then he's hit with the mental image of himself kneeling beside the bed, between Draco's legs, Draco's long, ruddy prick bobbing just inches from Harry's face. Harry nearly staggers from the thought of it, his breath going out of him. Draco looks back over his shoulder. 

"That's just the start," Draco says. "Because I do think I need to be thanked for tonight." He stops beside the bed, turning to face Harry, letting his fingers cup Harry's face, smoothe across his cheek. "Enduring a table filled with Gryffindors." His eyes crinkle at the corners, the way they always do when Draco's amused.

"However did you survive?" Harry murmurs, and he turns his head to kiss Draco's palm. A shudder goes through Draco as Harry drags the tip of his tongue across his lifeline. "Also, I'm fairly certain I blew you for a good fifteen minutes this morning." He nips at Draco's wrist.

Draco pulls his hand away. "Have I mentioned I like my prick being sucked by the Saviour of the Wizarding World?" He's watching Harry's face, loosening his tie as he does. "It helps, of course, that said Saviour's also bloody fucking amazing at cocksucking." He tugs his tie off, dropping it to the floor. 

"Is he?" Harry reaches out, undoes the top button of Draco's shirt. "You should probably keep him around." His fingers slide past the soft cotton, brush over Draco's collarbone. "Yeah?"

The look on Draco's face is so raw and open that it takes Harry's breath away. "I might want to," Draco rasps out, and all Harry can do is lean in and kiss him, his hands sliding up to cup Draco's face. Draco's fingers clench at Harry's jacket, holding tightly as if he's afraid Harry's going somewhere. Harry's whole world narrows to the press of their lips and tongues, to Draco's soft gasps and his own ragged breaths, the quiet music of desire that fills the room, and Harry realises this is what falling in love must feel like, this aching, shuddering need to be so close to someone else, to want to protect them, to have them, to cherish them.

"Draco," he whispers, and his hands slide to Draco's shirt, fingers fumbling with the buttons until he has it open, hanging off Draco's shoulders, and Harry's smoothing his palms across Draco's warm skin as he kisses him, his mouth dragging along the sharp angle of Draco's jaw, the long curve of his neck.

"Please." Draco's eyes flutter closed, his head drops back. "Harry." And Harry loves the sound of his name on Draco's lips. Maybe they are the Harry and Draco sort after all, he thinks, and he smiles against Draco's skin. 

Harry's fingers are tugging Draco's trousers open, and he pushes them down, lets them slide down Draco's pale, muscular legs, pooling around Draco's ankles. Draco's prick is swollen and hard and leaking already, and Harry pulls away just enough to wrestle himself out of his jacket and throws it to the floor. He doesn't care where. He just wants to be on his knees right now, in front of Draco, his mouth on that brilliant cock. He manages to take his glasses off, to fold the legs in and set them on the nightstand before coming back to pull Draco up against him.

Draco gasps as Harry slides down his body. He looks at him, his eyes wide and bright. "Circe," he whispers, and he groans as Harry slips his hands over Draco's thighs, spreading his stance wider. 

"I'm going to suck you," Harry says, looking up at Draco. His calf muscle twinges and he ignores it, focusing instead on the press of sharp, white teeth into Draco's pink lip as he bites it, the expectant look lighting up his grey eyes. His touselled gold hair is falling into his face and Harry's struck with such a sense of longing and joy, he doesn't know what to say for a moment. Merlin but Draco Malfoy's beauty is like a physical blow.

"Less talk, more action, Harry," Draco says, but his hand smoothes gently across Harry's cheek. 

Harry takes a deep breath. This is easy. This is what he's good at. He's sucked numerous cocks before and had his sucked in return. Strangely, however, he's nervous because now he's sucking his boyfriend's cock, and his boyfriend is Draco bloody Malfoy, bane of his Hogwarts existence and a snarky, demanding git that Harry's arse over goddamned tit for. Harry keeps his left hand on Draco's thigh and slides the right to the base of Draco's prick, wrapping his fingers around the base. Draco groans, his knees apparently a bit wobbly, as Harry ghosts his lips over the swollen head of Draco's prick.

When Harry glances up again, Draco's looking down at him, a soft expression on his face. "This view never gets old, you know."

Harry smiles, then sucks down several inches of Draco's cock, swallowing him down, then stroking his foreskin up as his mouth withdraws. He runs the flat of his tongue over the head of Draco's prick, tasting salt and musk, then chases it with the tip of his tongue into Draco's slit, the way he knows Draco likes. Draco's thighs are shaking. Harry loves taking Draco apart with his mouth, loves showing him how he can make him feel.

Pulling his mouth off of Draco's cock with a soft pop, Harry says, "Do you want to sit?" He's fairly certain Draco won't be able to stand through this. Not if he's already a bit wobbly.

When Draco's arse hits the mattress, Harry dives in again, pushing Draco's thighs wider, sucking more of Draco's prick down his throat and constricting his throat around him, taking him deeper and deeper until Harry's eyes are watering. Harry gags a little, then withdraws, then challenges his reflex again because it makes Draco shudder and gasp, and Harry will do anything he bloody well can to make Draco Malfoy tremble beneath him like this. 

Draco tangles his fingers in Harry's hair, his prick hardening even more. "Fuck," he chokes out. "You've the best mouth in creation, you glorious bastard."

Harry sucks him harder, rolling Draco's foreskin in his palm on each upstroke, delighting in Draco's soft whimper. Draco's hips make tentative thrusts into Harry's mouth, one his hand sliding from Harry's hair to cradle Harry's jaw as he groans, his heels pressed into the sides of the bed, his knees as fucking widespread as Draco can possibly get them. 

When Draco's bollocks are tight against his shaft, rosy and swollen, and Harry knows Draco's so bloody damned close, his eyes glassy and unfocussed, his breath quick and harsh, Harry sits back on his heels, letting Draco's gorgeous prick slide slowly out of his mouth. 

It takes a moment before Draco realises what Harry's done. His flushed face shifts, becomes irritated, frustrated. "What--" Draco's voice catches, and he clears his throat as he blinks down at Harry. "What the hell, Harry?" He sounds petulant. "I'm so close--"

Harry stands up and kisses Draco silent, letting him taste himself on Harry's tongue. "Now on your stomach." Draco gives him a half-questioning, half-furious look, and Harry laughs. "You didn't think that was all I was going to do, did you? I believe my contract includes rimming that bloody brilliant arse of yours as well."

He's joking, of course, about any contractual agreement between them. There is no such thing; in fact, Harry's dead afraid that Draco will tire of him shortly and be done with him. Harry's opening himself to Draco, and he has no idea if Draco feels the same way about him, if Draco's heart, like Harry's, is near-bursting in his chest just from _looking_ at him, much less touching him. Harry's ridiculously hard just from giving Draco pleasure--and he hasn't even had a hand on himself yet.

Draco takes a shaky breath. "Does it now?" He pretends to ponder for a moment, but then he toes off his shoes and turns, lowering his stomach to the bed and pushing his arse into Harry's face, his shirt bunching up around the small of his back. "How fortunate for me."

"Warning, spell coming," Harry says, and Draco inhales as the light cleaning spell makes contact with his arse. Harry's proud of his wandless spellwork, and also bloody glad he's learned to turn the power down on some of them. That particular one stings something horrid if you put too much strength behind it. Harry knows from personal experience.

Harry reaches up to knead the pale cheeks of Draco's arse, pulling them apart to look at the pucker of his arsehole, the pinkened swell of his bollocks. "Are you looking or buying, Potter?" Draco says a bit breathily.

In response to his snark, Harry licks a wet stripe up Draco's crease, swirling his tongue over the soft furl of Draco's hole. Draco gasps, and Harry pushes further, lodging the tip of his tongue inside of him. Christ, but Harry loves rimming Draco. He's only been with a few men who were as responsive as Draco is to Harry's tongue in their arseholes. As Draco grabs the sheets and thrusts his arse in Harry's face, Harry licks, sucks and thrusts his tongue, further and further inside Draco's body. Draco's not quiet--never has been, not when Harry's doing this--and Harry sends a nonverbal Muffliato across the room. Better safe than sorry with the noise in the hall, especially with how abandoned Draco is at the moment, his cries echoing throughout their bedroom, spurring Harry on to fuck Draco harder with his tongue, his fingers pulling Draco's arsecheeks wider.

Draco starts humping the bed, rubbing his cock against the sheets as his body opens to Harry's mouth, and Harry loses himself in the sensation, the tight stretch of Draco's arsehole, the slick of saliva, the rising noise of Draco's desperate keening. Again, as he feels Draco begin to ride up the crest to orgasm, Harry pulls his mouth off of Draco's body and stands up. He knows it's a momentary cruelty, but it's going to be so much better when Draco actually comes.

Harry stands to the side and wipes his lips with the back of his hand. 

"You fucking bastard," Draco snarls into the coverlet, his hair in his face. "How much is in this damned contract?"

"You'd be surprised," Harry says, watching the beautiful sight of Draco utterly aching and wet on the bed, his body twisting, rubbing his prick against the white duvet. "I think there's a clause in there about buggery, too."

Draco sighs, his shoulders touching the bed and his back loose. "Harry, if you think you're getting up my arse, you're sorely mistaken." He turns over and fixes Harry with a stern look, his face flushed and eyes bright. "You were rather vigourous last night--the last few days in fact--and we just had a phenomenal meal. Which wasn't quite as heavy as I thought, but still." Draco frowns up at him, clearly annoyed at being brought to the edge twice without actually being allowed to tumble over.

And, oh, Harry is ridiculously besotted, isn't he, if even Draco's being narked off at him makes his heart clench in his chest. Christ but he loves this moody, fierce bastard something fierce, and he has no fucking way to show it to him other than with his body.

Harry turns his palms up in surrender. "Oh well." He puts a knee on the bed. "I guess it's my turn to ride you then."

The shocked look on Draco's face, followed by the stealthy glint of excitement in his eyes is worth everything. "Yes. It must be." Draco's prick is fully erect between them, glistening wet and rock hard. Draco stretches his arms up across the bed, resting his head on his hands. "You should get on that, Potter. I mean--" He smiles for a moment, quick and almost embarrassed. "Harry."

And oh, that soft little pause between those two words, those two ways of saying Harry's name. Draco's as undone by the newness of their situation as Harry is, Harry realises for a moment. Even if it's not the "I love you" that Harry's heart craves, it's a recognition of change, of intimacy.

Harry rolls his shoulders and then rattles off a few spells, feeling his body shift, the insides relax. He knows he should fetch actual lube, but, well, is it wrong that he wants to feel this tomorrow, wants to remember the stretch of his arse around Draco's prick? If it's too bad, he can cast a healing charm, but right now, he doesn't want to break the flow of their lovemaking--and for Harry, that's what this is. He's not fucking Draco Malfoy any longer, and he knows that. Everything's shifted, for Harry at least. It's different. Softer. More careful, more intense. Harry casts the spell to conjure a handful of lube, and whilst Draco watches him with raised eyebrows, he rubs it on Draco's prick, then slides it into his own arse. It's slick enough, barely.

"Lazy," Draco says, and Harry smacks his hip.

"Budge up," Harry says, "unless you want me flying off the bed."

Draco laughs at him, but moves a bit further up the mattress, his eyes bright and wide already.

Harry positions himself on his knees over Draco's erect prick. He's so hard, his prick is bobbing in front of him, and he's dripping. He wants this so much, wants to let Draco claim him. Harry quite likes being fucked himself, thanks very much, and it's a new thing for him, being the one on top most of the time. He likes it, likes the way Draco looks spread beneath him, but Harry misses the feel of a prick deep inside of him, more so than he'd realised. He shifts his weight, lines himself up and reaches back with a hand, guiding Draco to his entrance, pausing, and then slowly sinking down. It burns, as expected, and yeah, actual lube is slicker, but it's still good--fuck, so bloody good--and Harry's body flares with want. 

Draco's eyes are impossibly dark, his hands tight on Harry's thighs, and he breathes out when he says, "Circe. Harry. Fuck, how you look."

Harry inhales, then pushes and sinks down a bit further on Draco's prick. It's tight, and it hurts, but it's amazing too, and he loves this feeling of Draco's cock up his arse. He looks down at Draco, then spreads his legs wider. "You like this view too?"

"Fuck, yes." Draco bites his lip again, eyes fixed on the place where their bodies are joined. "We should do this more often."

"You think?" Harry laughs softly. "Christ, Draco. The way you feel inside of me…" Harry closes his eyes for moment, exhales slowly. "It's like I can feel your heartbeat."

"Oh," Draco says, and his hands slide up Harry's thighs, grip Harry's hips. "Oh, Harry." It's a prayer, a soft sigh, a careful, gentle caress.

With a few more breaths, Harry manages to slide all the way down, to have the entirety of Draco's prick inside of him. It feels incredible, and the tender, ridiculously aroused look on Draco's face is everything to Harry right now. He starts to move, lifting himself up, then dropping down, getting used to the stretch and the sensation of being filled. Draco is panting, letting Harry ride him, his hips coming up to chase Harry's body when he rises, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of Harry's hips. He looks beautiful spread out beneath Harry, his cheeks pink, the flush spreading across his narrow chest.

Harry stretches forward, kissing Draco on the mouth. "You're so fucking incredible." He's closer to coming himself than he expected, but Draco seems to have that effect on him, and the pressure inside his body is delicious, rippling through him, setting his skin on fire, his muscles clenching around Draco's brilliant prick. 

After a few more rises and falls of Harry's hips, Draco groans. "Harry," he says, his hands pressing into Harry's skin, holding him still. "Harry, let me fuck you. Please. Please let me fuck you." 

All Harry can do is gasp and shudder, and Draco hooks his arms under Harry's thighs and rolls them over, still inside Harry. 

"Merlin, yes," Draco says, thrusting into Harry's body once, rising up on his knees over Harry before stilling, looking down at Harry with wide eyes, pupils blown. "Is this okay?" 

Harry smiles at him, reaches up to grasp Draco's shoulders with both hands. "Christ it's amazing. You're amazing." He rolls his hips forward. "And you can fuck me harder." God, can Draco ever. Harry wants Draco to slam into him, to push him over the edge, to fuck him until Harry can barely walk straight the next day. Harry lets his mind open, lets Draco see how much he wants that, and Draco's breath stutters. 

"Goddamn it, Harry." Draco shifts, pressing Harry's knees closer to his chest, then thrusting harder with his hips, and oh, he strikes something inside Harry that makes Harry almost sob with joy. 

"Fuck. Yes. Do that again." Harry's gasping and Draco's pounding into him, and his body is coming apart under Draco's hips and throbbing, and Harry's mind is singing with the sense of being safe and cared for and home, and it's everything, even if only for a moment. 

Harry rocks his hips forward, every muscle in his body tensing, building to and then reaching a crest of satisfaction and explosive pleasure. He cries out, his spunk spattering hot and sticky between them as Draco fucks him, without even touching his prick, and Harry's whole body's shaking, trembling, and he grips Draco's shoulders, digs his fingers into his skin, holds Draco tight.

"Oh, fuck. Harry." Draco says wonderingly, his own face tight, and Harry knows Draco's so close.

"More," Harry chokes out, and he pushes up, his arse aching, and it's almost too much. "Please, Draco, don't stop." He pulls Draco down, kisses him hard, his teeth scraping across Draco's bottom lip. "God, I need your spunk inside of me." He tightens himself around Draco's prick, and Draco gasps, his hair falling forward into his face, over Harry's cheeks, and it's just the two of them, their bodies moving together in the shadows of the bedroom in perfect tandem, their breaths ragged, their groans rising until Draco's shuddering, his arms barely able to hold him up, and Harry doesn't know how he'll be able to handle this, to watch Draco as he cries out, his body arching against Harry's, and Harry could almost come again from the look on Draco's face as he tenses, shoulders taut, face flushed, head thrown back, and Draco falls forward with a shout, gasping as his spunk fills Harry's arse, seeps out with each slowing thrust.

"Merlin." Draco's breathing heavily. His prick slides out of Harry, and Harry rolls to his side, pulling Draco with him. Draco wraps himself around Harry, his arm draped over Harry's chest. They lie there for a moment, still, both of their bodies wet and trembling with aftershocks. Harry takes Draco's hand, lifts it, kisses his knuckles before casting a cleaning charm on both of them.

"Circe, you're brilliant," Draco murmurs, and Harry laughs.

He feels warm and sated and happy, and he won't think about tomorrow, about going back to London, about having to keep his distance once more from Draco in public. But, unless Draco objects, he's not going to keep their relationship hidden, he thinks. Not any longer, not now that Draco's been removed from his command, even if temporarily. He doesn't give a damn what Gawain says. But still, it'll be different. They'll have to keep being careful. For Draco's sake at least. Harry won't have anyone saying Draco fucked Harry to get further up the ladder. Still he has tonight, and the way Draco's pressing his mouth against Harry's shoulder blade, soft and careful. 

Draco doesn't say anything, and Harry shifts, turning his head to look back at him. There's a hesitant look on Draco's face.

"Something's wrong," Harry says. He doesn't know how he knows, but he does, and Draco rolls on his back, looking up at the ceiling. Harry sits up. "Draco."

"It's nothing." Draco looks over at him. There's a worried furrow between his brows. "Just thinking about tomorrow. Going back." He runs a hand along Harry's chest. "How I won't be able to touch you in public. Not like I can here." He lets his thumb smooth over Harry's nipple.

Harry gives him a small smile. "I'm not going to like that either."

Draco brushes his fingertips against Harry's jaw. "Do you think about not going back? Ever?"

Sometimes, Harry wants to say. Instead he looks away. "It's not really a choice, is it? We're Aurors. We serve at the pleasure of Her Majesty's Magical Government."

"I suppose." Draco's hand falls back to his side. His hair's spread across the pillow, a spill of pale gilt over white cotton, softly bright in the light from the buildings across the street. "I'm worried."

Harry settles back next to Draco, his body pressed to Draco's side, his hand on Draco's chest. "About?"

"Everything." Draco turns his head towards Harry, his face wry. "I'm an anxious bastard. Haven't you learnt that by now?"

"I've somewhat of an idea." Harry lets his fingertips trace small circles across Draco's sternum. He loves the faint golden fuzz of hair across Draco's chest, so different from his own, although it hurts him to see it broken across the twisting Sectumsempra scars that wind their way across Draco's chest. He did mark him, Harry thinks, and more brutally than Voldemort did. Christ, he'd been such a child, so angry and so stupid. He traces the curve of one scar, up and around Draco's right nipple. "Do you want to talk about it?"

"Not really," Draco says, and Harry just nods. He won't push. Draco looks away, out the window of the bedroom, over the lights of the city. 

The room grows still and quiet.

Harry's half-asleep when Draco says, "Do you think they'll pass the Registry?" His voice is soft in the darkness, and it takes Harry a moment to answer. 

"I'll do everything I can to stop them," he says. Harry pulls Draco up against him, rests his forehead against Draco's temple. Draco feels fragile and broken in his arms, and Harry just wants to hold him close. Protect him from whatever stupidity their world's going to try to throw at him. 

Draco just sighs. "And if you can't?"

"We'll do what we have to," Harry says quietly. "Whatever that is."

Draco's hand settles over Harry's, warm and heavy. "You're a wonder, Harry Potter," he whispers. "You know that, yes?"

Harry doesn't answer. He just sighs and pulls Draco closer. They'll worry about tomorrow when tomorrow comes, he thinks. It's the only thing they can do. Harry wraps his arms around Draco, lets Draco rest his head against Harry's shoulder. He presses his lips to Draco's forehead. 

"Go to sleep, you idiot," Harry whispers. "You've a long day ahead of you." 

Draco huffs a soft laugh against Harry's collarbone. Harry waits, and he can feel the moment Draco's body relaxes, his breathing evens.

Harry lies still, an unsettling, unspoken worry starting to fester deep inside of him as he thinks about going back to London.

It's a long time before he falls asleep.

***

Draco follows Granger and Graves out of the wide bank of Bonavista Floos. He's nervous, dreadfully so, and with good cause, he thinks. Harry'd told him he'd be fine, but Harry'd also been pressed up against Draco's towel-clad body at the time, watching him in the bathroom mirror as he kissed down Draco's neck, so Draco's fairly certain Harry's professional opinion of Draco's Legilimency skills is complete bollocks.

It's early for a Monday morning, barely half past eight, and Draco'd met Granger and Graves in Durant's office an hour ago for the final sign-off on this first round of intensive training. Durant had made him go up against Graves himself, and Draco'd thought he'd been awful, barely able to get anything through Graves' Occlumens other than a flurry of emotions--curiosity, amusement, a touch of surprise here and there. Still, Graves had nodded, telling Durant he was impressed with how far Draco had come in only a weekend. Frankly, Draco thinks that's shite, but it'd still made him feel good, if only for a moment. 

They'd left Durant behind, of course. He's not allowed to be anywhere near his brother's official questioning; the Americans are stricter about that than they are in London. But before Draco'd stepped into the MACUSA Floo, Durant had grabbed his elbow, told him to keep his focus and not to mangle his fucking brother's brain if Draco could help it. 

Circe, Draco hopes he doesn't. 

They're met in the corridor by Alice Kwan, Healer-in-Chief for Magical Trauma. She holds out her hand to each of them in turn, shaking firmly. She's a petite woman in bright green high heels and a crisp white Healer-in-Chief's robe open over her green and white floral dress, her salt and pepper hair cut short in a touselled easy bob. 

"How is Eddie?" Graves asks as she leads them down the corridor to the lifts. 

"Far better than when your boys brought him in," Kwan says. "We kept him on a steady potions drip the entirety of the weekend. He's alert now, but still not feeling communicative. I'd strongly suggest you keep this visit short, if possible. Mr Durant's gone through a traumatic event, and while I expect him to make a full recovery, his mental state's still…" She hesitates. "Fragile, shall we say?"

Granger frowns at that. "Is he capable of undergoing an interview?"

Kwan shrugs. "Physically, I don't think it'll be an issue as long as your time with him is brief. Legally, that's Director Graves' call."

"It'll hold up in court," Graves says, his demeanour blunt. He looks over at Draco. "Sergeant Malfoy will just be required to verify the simple facts of the case with Eddie. No deep probing. Just a general sense of what happened and whether or not Eddie's telling us the goddamned truth." Graves' mouth thins out a bit. "He's a slippery son of a bitch."

Draco can only imagine. He's spent the past two days sparring with his brother after all. Still, he nods, trying to wipe the palms of his hands discreetly against his trousers. "I can do that." Judging from the curve of Graves' mouth, Draco thinks his nervousness has been detected. He squares his shoulders and looks away as they stop in front of a lift, and Kwan pushes the button. The doors slide open almost instantly and they all follow her in. Draco watches as she pushes the button again, this time for the third floor, second if you're British, he thinks, still not used to the strange numbering conventions in the States. The lift jerks, rising up, and Draco leans his shoulders back against the dull chrome panelling. Granger's across from him, and she gives him an encouraging smile. 

Draco tries to return it. He's fairly certain he fails, and he feels terrible about that. His discomfort around Granger's shifted since their dinner last night. He's not certain he likes her, but he doesn't dislike her, either, and she'd made the attempt to treat him not as an underling but as Harry's boyfriend, and that had meant the world to Draco. 

"You'll be fine," Granger says to him, and Draco just nods.

Merlin, but he's nervous. He knows he doesn't need to be, knows that Durant's given him a solid introduction to the basics of Legilimency, that he has a natural talent for it, that he's not going to send Eddie Durant to the American equivalent of the Janus Thickey Ward at St Mungo's. Still this feels strangely momentous in an uncomfortable way, and Draco hates that Graves is here to look over his shoulder. Granger he understands, is almost grateful for. Graves makes his bloody skin crawl, especially since he's trying to be nice to Draco now. Or appear to be at least. Draco might almost prefer him openly hostile--he doesn't trust Graves further than he can throw him, particularly not after their conversation yesterday.

Draco wonders if he ought to have told Harry about that. He almost had, when they'd been lying in bed last night, wrapped around each other. But Draco hadn't been able to bear mentioning it, hadn't wanted to see Harry's mood shift and sour. Besides, there's probably nothing to it. Draco's said no, and whatever Graves thinks, Draco has no intention of changing his mind. 

The lift doors open again, and Kwan leads them out, then down another long, pale blue hallway. Draco knows exactly which room they're headed for; you can't miss the two Aurors sitting outside the door, wands at the ready. They tense up when they see Graves and the rest of them approaching, both of themstanding up, nearly at attention. 

"How are things, Cozza?" Graves asks one of them, a tall, slope-shouldered man with a friendly, freckled face and a mop of brown curls. 

"Good enough, sir." Cozza unwards the door, pushing it open. "Ed's up and moving about today. Keeping us on our toes." Cozza grins. "Tried to get out the window half an hour ago, but we dragged his ass back in."

Graves just shakes his head. "Jesus," he says, but there's a hint of amused affection in his voice. Draco gets the distinct impression that Eddie Durant's been given plenty of leeway over the years when it comes to his less than legal activities, if only because of his brother. That has to sting a bit, Draco thinks. On both sides. 

Kwan walks into the room first. "Mr Durant, I've visitors for you."

Eddie Durant's by the window again, obviously examining it to see if he can get through the wards. He turns around, giving them all a glare, his bare arse half hanging out of his hospital gown. Granger makes a surprised sound--almost a laugh, almost a horrified breath--but Draco doesn't look away. It's a good arse, he thinks. The Durant boys were both born with decent genes. 

"Hello, Tommy," Eddie says. "Wondered how long it'd be before you paid me a visit." He sounds a bit petulant, but he lets Kwan lead him back towards the bed. The room's a private one, with its own en suite in the corner, if you could call the small room with a shower and a loo in it that. Still, Draco's impressed. The walls are cream, save for one that's a soft lilac, the colours obviously chosen to calm and soothe. A hospital bed Levitates in the centre of the room, surrounded by floating tubes and hanging potions bags, most of them empty now. The bed bounces a bit when Eddie sits down on it. 

Eddie's already eyeing Draco. "So you're the son of a bitch they're putting on me since my brother can't throw the whammy at me?" He snorts. "Legally, at least."

"That would be me, yes." Draco hates how thin and reedy his voice sounds. He clears his throat, refusing to look away as Eddie studies him. 

_How good are you, boy?_ he hears in his head in Eddie's slow drawl.

Draco just smiles faintly and lets his thoughts drag across the bumpy ridges of Eddie Durant's mind. His brother was right. Eddie's got some tricks up his sleeve, but he's not a solid Occlumens or Legilimens. _Good enough. Your brother trained me after all._

Eddie's eyebrow goes up. _We'll see, fucker._ He grins back at Draco, then glances over at Graves. "So how we going to do this? Who's asking me the pretty questions?"

"Sergeant Malfoy's going to lead your questioning," Graves says. "Unspeakable Granger and I are here only for observation, and Healer-in-Chief Kwan will be present in case you have any form of medical issue."

"You mean if buddy boy here implodes my brain." Eddie's still watching Draco, and Draco catches a tiny, almost imperceptible flare of worry. 

Graves' mouth twitches to one side. "More or less, although I have complete faith in Sergeant Malfoy's ability not to do so."

Well at least someone does, Draco thinks, and he almost feels a laugh echoing from Eddie Durant's mind. Draco glances over at him in surprise. _Your brother doesn't think you're a Legilimens_ , he sends towards Eddie. 

_I'm not_ drifts back over to Draco, ever so faint, like the softest of whispers in the depths of Draco's mind. _Not like Jakey, but I got a few things I can do, pretty boy. My mama's family had the gift, but I'm betting my baby brother didn't tell you that._

Draco can feel Graves watching him. He wonders if he knows about Eddie's ability, and Draco can't imagine he doesn't. Tom Graves is no one's fool. He looks over at Granger. "You want to handle the recording charm?" He feels oddly wary around her, now that he's dating Harry, almost too eager for her to approve of him, which only serves to make him more prickly in a way. He doesn't want to give a damn about Granger's opinion, but he knows it matters to Harry, even if they're a bit distant at the moment, and Draco's surprised to realise he does care about that, at least.

Granger nods, and she casts the recording charm. "It's the tenth of July, two thousand and six. I'm Unspeakable Hermione Jean Granger of the British Department of Mysteries along with Sergeant Draco Lucius Malfoy of the British Auror Force, subsequently assigned to the British Department of Mysteries and working under the auspices of the MACUSA Department of Magical Law Enforcement. MACUSA Director of Magical Security Thomas Andrew Graves is also present in Bonavista Hospital for the questioning of Edward Fontenot Durant, aged forty, of…" Granger hesitates. "Mr Durant, your legal residence is still Thibodaux, Louisiana?"

"That's where I pay my taxes from," Eddie says. 

"Sometimes," Graves adds, and Eddie tilts his head in agreement. 

"I ain't always good with remembering tax day." Eddie looks at Granger. "You reading me my rights? Because I ain't talking to you without my lawyer in here and she stepped out for a coffee."

Draco raises his eyebrows. "You have a solicitor."

"We call them lawyers around here, son." Eddie looks amused. "And what kind of goddamn fool do you take me for? My brother's been a Hit Wizard, an Auror, and an Unspeakable with that bastard over there." He nods towards Graves, his eyes narrowing. "I ain't that dumb, Tom."

"Never said you were, Eddie." Graves sits down in one of the chairs in the corner. "But this is just a nice little chat. Nothing formal."

Eddie snorts. "You recording it? It's official enough for me to have a fucking lawyer." Uncertainty rolls off of him, mixed with a bit of fear. "You try to disappear me, and there's someone who'll know."

Graves just gives him an even look. Kwan steps forward. "Mr Durant, we want to keep you calm--"

"If you stick me with another one of those goddamn potions bags," Eddie says, pointing a finger at her, "we're going to have a problem, you and me."

Kwan scowls at him; the two of them battle each other in a silent face-off, that only ends when Kwan throws up her hands. "Fine," she snaps. "Keep me from doing my medical duty. You were catatonic when you were brought in--"

"I was goddamn terrified when I was brought in." Eddie's voice rises. "Jesus Christ, woman."

"Do you want to talk about that, Eddie?" Granger asks, and Eddie turns his bright blue gaze on her.

The door opens behind them, and Draco looks around. A tall woman walks in, her face a deep, rich brown, her nose round and broad, her dark eyes sharp as they sweep across the room. She carries herself regally, and her red suit is fitted, tailored perfectly to her curvy body, the skirt only barely skimming her knees. She has a paper coffee cup in one hand, steam rising up from the small opening in the lid.

"I see my timing was off," she says. "Eddie, have they started on you?"

"Nah," Eddie says. "I told them I ain't talking without you here."

"Thank you." She looks at Graves. "Anna Picquery. I'm Mr Durant's legal representation. Do I need to present my MACUSA Bar identification?"

Graves shakes his head. "I know who you are, Ms Picquery." He doesn't look happy, but Draco can't eke anything out from behind Graves' Occlumens. Not at the moment, at least. Graves looks back at Draco. "Sergeant Malfoy will be leading our line of questioning. To be fully above-board, he's an Legilimens-in-training, but he'll only be using his abilities today to determine whether or not Mr Durant is telling us the truth. You're aware of this, yes, Sergeant?"

Draco nods. "Should I suspect otherwise, I'll state so for the recording."

Picquery glances at the recording charm that floats beside Granger's shoulder. "You've the usual Legilimency warnings set?"

Granger almost looks offended. "Yes," she says, her voice curt, and Picquery gives her an amused glance before she takes a sip of her coffee.

"Proceed then," Picquery says, walking over to Eddie's bedside. She pats his shoulder. 

"Sergeant," Graves murmurs, motioning for Draco to start. 

Draco takes a shaky breath, all too aware of Picquery and Eddie both watching him. "Mr Durant," he says, and he pulls a chair up beside Eddie's bed, settling himself in it. "Can you tell me what happened on the night of the sixth of July?"

Eddie just looks at him and doesn't say anything. Draco lets his mind trail across Eddie's, as lightly as he can, picking up the undercurrents of fear still swirling about. 

"We can keep you safe," Draco says, and Eddie snorts. 

"'Bout as good as you can keep yourself safe, hey?" Eddie looks away, then sighs. "I don't know what you fuckers want me to say that you don't already know. It was fucking Antonin Dolohov."

The fear twisting through Eddie grows a bit stronger. Draco tries to push it away a bit, separate it from his own nervousness, his own discomfort before it drags him under. He clenches his hands, willing them not to shake. "You're frightened of him, Eddie."

"I'm goddamn sensible is what I am," Eddie says, and he doesn't look at Draco. "The man's fucking crazy. Ought to be in here instead of me." There's a shiver of something Draco can't quite define beneath Eddie's bravado, and Draco gets a quick flash of Dolohov leaning through the bars of the holding cell in the detention facility, his teeth bared, his laugh echoing. He glances towards the recording charm, but it didn't flash blue. Curious. That must have been from Eddie, then.

"What did he say to you?" Draco asks. He can almost hear it in the back of his mind, Dolohov's sharp hiss, the guttural roll of his accent. 

Eddie turns his gaze towards Draco. "Not a fucking thing." 

Draco's mouth twitches towards one side. "I don't have to be a Legilimens to know that's a lie."

"My client doesn't have to answer that question," Picquery says, and she takes a sip of her coffee. 

"If he wants us to drop charges," Graves says, "he might want to think about it."

"That's on the table?" Picquery sits up, suddenly interested. 

Graves shrugs. "It could be. I'm amenable to it." 

Picquery and Eddie exchange a long look, then Eddie turns back to Draco and says, "He told me to keep my goddamn mouth shut or he'd come after my brother next." Eddie draws in a shaky breath. "Then the asshole bastard hexed me."

"A Stinging Hex, along with body bind and an unnamed offensive battle curse I've never seen," Kwan says, and Draco can feel Granger tense beside him. "He definitely used a more intense variant of a Stunner that caused significant neuromagical trauma to Mr Durant." 

"Fucked my head up," Eddie says. "For three whole days, which is more than my daddy managed in sixteen years, and Jasper Durant could be a son of bitch when he wanted to, so…" He shrugs, but Draco can feel the waves of exhaustion and grim unhappiness rolling off of Eddie. Draco knows Antonin Dolohov. He's pretty fucking certain Dolohov did more than just vaguely threaten Eddie.

"He told you exactly how he was going to hurt your brother, didn't he?" Draco asks quietly, his eyes fixed on Eddie's face. "How he was going to torture him with a Cruciatus in front of you until Jake's body was so bent and twisted he couldn't hold himself upright, and then he was going to start stripping bits of his skin away, throwing them at your feet--"

"Stop," Eddie says, and his hands are trembling. Draco knows he's right. A leopard doesn't change its spots, after all.

Picquery looks over at the recording charm. "Is that thing working?" she asks, her mouth tight, and Granger just nods. 

Draco glaces at Picquery. "I don't need Legilimency," he says, "to know what Antonin Dolohov threatened. He spent a year wandering through my house, making the same fucking threats to me when I was a teenager." Draco turns back to Eddie. "I know what that bastard is like," he says. "He once told me he'd leave my mother's fingers outside my door the next morning, just to see me flinch."

Eddie's face is pale. "Did he do it?"

"Someone else stopped him." Draco rubs his palm across his face, trying to erase the memory. Severus had kept his mother safe. Draco knows that without a shadow of a doubt. The same way he'd kept Draco safe from his uncle. Merlin only knew how many times Severus had stepped between his family and the other Death Eaters, directing their ire away, keeping them from harm, whether or not any of them deserved it. 

Circe, Draco misses him.

Eddie looks away. "He didn't want me anyway. Dolohov and his lot."

"Who was with him?" Graves asks from behind Draco. 

"I didn't know them," Eddie says, and when Graves looks to Draco to see if Eddie's lying, Draco shakes his head. 

"He didn't," Draco says, certain of that. Eddie gives him a faint smile, and it's so much like his brother's that Draco's a bit taken aback. 

"They had masks on," Eddie says, and he's looking a bit annoyed. "Silver ones. Engraved even." Draco's body tenses at that. "I'm pretty fucking certain your recording charms on the holding cells have told you that, Tommy."

Graves just gives him a bland smile. "Doesn't mean you didn't know them."

"Death Eaters," Draco says, and he looks over at Granger. "If they were wearing masks like that." 

"Would you recognise the masks?" Granger asks, and Draco shrugs. 

"Probably." Draco rubs the back of his neck. "Most of the inner circle had their own particular engravings on the masks, so we knew who was behind it, if no one else did. But the masks were only worn by some people, not everyone, and I can't guarantee Dolohov hasn't repurposed some of them. My aunt's, for example. It wasn't ever found in the Manor after the war. Dolohov could have it and have passed it on to someone else."

Granger nods, but she's writing something down in a notebook. "I still want you to check the recording charms. See what you can tell us."

Draco doesn't want to, but he also knows he can't object. It's his fucking job, after all. He tries not to rub at his forearm. It still aches, although the skin's knitting back together. Instead he looks back over at Eddie and Picquery, the latter of whom seems a hell of a lot more uncomfortable than her client does. "How long have you been working with Dolohov, Eddie?" Draco asks, and he doesn't look away. 

Eddie doesn't flinch, and Draco's surprised. Impressed even. He thinks he likes Eddie Durant, just for his pure bloodymindedness. He lets that thought slip across Eddie's mind, and the corners of Eddie's mouth quirk up. 

_Back atcha, boy._

"You don't have to answer that, Eddie," Picquery says again. 

"I got no intention of it, Anna," Eddie says. "I'm not a goddamn idiot."

"Which means you have been for a while." Graves leans back in his chair, crosses one ankle over his knee. "Am I right, Sergeant Malfoy?"

Eddie gives Graves a vicious glare. "Thought he was questioning me, asshole. Not you."

Graves just raises a shoulder. "I've a bit more experience with you, I'd say." 

"Director Graves." Picquery stands up, walks across the room to bin her coffee cup. "I'll call off this line of questioning immediately if you don't back the fuck off of my client. I'm sure Healer-in-Chief Kwan would be more than happy to support my claim of Auror harassment of a wounded suspect--"

Kwan's already nodding. "I wouldn't want Mr Durant to be placed under undue stress." 

Draco marvels at how Eddie's wrapped them both around his finger. He sends that image drifting towards Eddie, and he gets a chuckle in return echoing in his mind. 

"But you were delivering a Hand of Glory to Dolohov," Draco says, his voice calm, and Eddie's gaze flicks towards him. "Weren't you? Mostly finished, but it still needed to cure, and if doesn't have enough time out in the sun, well…" Draco raises an eyebrow. He lets his thoughts scrape across the edges of Eddie's consciousness, the way Durant had trained him, lets him see a bit of what they know about the Hand of Glory and how Dolohov used it. "It doesn't quite work as intended, does it? And maybe that might have made the person you sold it to a bit irritated? Even if you told him it wasn't quite ready?"

Eddie's silent, just looking at him with those bright blue Durant eyes, same as the ones Draco's been staring into for the past three days. 

_You're good,_ Eddie's voice whispers faintly. _Jakey's trained you, hasn't he? I can feel him when you try to get in my head._

"My client is not going to discuss any items he may or may not have made." Picquery's watching Draco with those sharp brown eyes of her. She reminds him of Millie in a way, both of them whip-smart and vicious in their defence of their clients, and that makes him smile. Picquery looks a bit taken aback. 

"We have proof," Granger says from Draco's side. She's studying Eddie. 

"Is it going to hold up in a court of law?" Picquery sounds disdainful. 

Draco's just watching Eddie, taking in the way his eyes shift to one side, the way he twists the bedsheet between his fingers. And then he knows, as certain as Eddie's shouting it in his brain. "You left a trail." Draco leans forward, his elbow resting on the mattress. "That's why you didn't bother to hide what you were buying. You knew your brother would track it down, that he'd figure out what you'd done." 

_Fuck, you brilliant bastard,_ Draco sends towards Eddie. 

Eddie looks away. "I didn't do nothing," he says after a moment, "and I ain't answering anything else." 

Draco presses his knuckle against his mouth, his eyes fixed on Eddie's face, on the way Eddie's mouth turns down. He's worried about his brother, Draco knows. He doesn't blame him. Not after his own experiences with Dolohov. _You're frightened. I understand._

"I'm done," Eddie says to Anna Picquery, and she nods. 

And then Eddie looks straight at Draco, and Draco's mind is flooded with an image of Les Harkaway in his open cell, on his knees in front of Dolohov, who's flanked by two other hooded, masked figures, and Merlin, the chanting's so fucking familiar that it takes Draco's breath away and he knows what's going to happen the moment Dolohov raises his wand and presses it against Harkaway's already tattooed skin. The ink shifts, moves, pushes away to reveal a stretch of pale forearm and then the pain goes through Harkaway, making him scream, and Draco knows how it feels, can still feel it twisting across his own skin, and it's everything he can do not to fall to his own knees, to writhe against the hospital floor. 

Draco sits as still as he can, his whole body motionless, breathing out, as he watches the Mark sear itself into Les Harkaway's skin, leaving the bastard sobbing against the floor. 

_Get him,_ Dolohov says to the others, and they reach for Harkaway, help him to his feet, and Dolohov's dragging another man from a cell down the hall, pulling him past Eddie, before he stops, looking into Eddie's cell, and then, with a vicious laugh, holding his wand towards Eddie's throat before flicking it slowly, the first Stinging Hex knocking Eddie off his feet. 

The image is gone in the fraction of the time it takes Draco to draw in a breath.

He can feel Graves watching him. 

_Did he see that?_ Draco asks Eddie, keeping it light enough across the edges of Eddie's mind that it doesn't set off the recording charm. 

_Nah,_ Eddie sends back, the words skittering across the faint gaps in Draco's consciousness. _Don't work that way. Not if I keep it to you. You take that to my brother. Not Graves. You understand?_

Draco exhales, then looks over at Graves. "We're not going to get anything else from him," he says, his voice low. He keeps his own Occlumens up, high enough even that Eddie can't push through the crevices. Durant's wrong about his brother, Draco thinks. Eddie Durant's a bloody fucking good neuromagician, whether or not he's been trained. 

"I'm ending this," Picquery says, and she lays a hand on Eddie's shoulder. "If you want anything else from Mr Durant, you can question him with a order of full immunity from the New York Wizarding Court in hand. Do I make myself clear?"

Graves looks unhappy, but he pushes himself out of his chair. "We'll see." He frowns down at Eddie. "I know you're hiding something, and I swear to God, Eddie, if it hurts this case, I will throw every goddamn felony in the book at you. Send you right up the fucking river to join your shithead of a father in Oudepoort. You got that?"

Eddie just raises his middle finger. "I think I do, Tommy." 

Granger ends the recording charm. "I'll send a copy of this to your office," she says to Picquery. 

"No need." Picquery's arms are crossed over her chest. "I'll come by MACUSA this afternoon and pick it up." She gives Draco a pointed, curious look. "I'll be wanting to make certain the Legilimency charms were strong enough."

Draco stands up, turns to follow Graves and Granger out of the room, but he stops and glances back at Eddie. "What do you know about the Old Man?" he asks, and he feels, rather than sees, Eddie flinch. 

"What old man?" Eddie asks, but Draco knows Eddie's fully aware of whom they're talking about. 

Draco pushes his hands in his pockets, shrugs. "Just someone of interest. "Thought you might have heard about him." 

Eddie shakes his head. "Never have. Don't know a lot of elderly gents." He's lying, and there's something about the Old Man that's making him more nervous than even Dolohov. 

Curious, Draco thinks. 

"Right." Draco nods. "Well, if you remember something…" He glances at Picquery, then back at Eddie. He lets his mind push a bit, but Eddie's slammed an Occlumens in place. "Just let me know."

Draco walks out of the room, stops between Graves and Granger, halfway down the hall from the Aurors at Eddie's door. Kwan doesn't follow him. Draco suspects she wants to examine Eddie, make certain Draco hadn't buggered up his fragile brain. Draco wants to snort at that thought, but he represses it, keeping his face blank and calm as both Granger and Graves turn towards him.

"Well?" Graves looks at Draco. "Did you get anything?"

"He's scared. He's lying about the Old Man." Draco has no intention of telling Graves about the Marking. Not before he talks to Harry. 

Graves just studies him for a long moment, and Draco can feel Graves sliding lightly across the edges of his mind. "You're certain there's nothing else." It's not really a question. 

Draco doesn't flinch, doesn't let his Occlumens slip. "That's all I picked up. Durant warned me that his brother could be tricky."

"True." Graves's shoulders relax, but Granger's giving Draco a thoughtful look. One he doesn't particularly care for. "Well done, Malfoy," Graves says. "Very impressive in there, especially for someone as newly trained as you." He glances at Granger. "Careful or I'll try to poach him from you."

"I think you'll find that harder than you expect," Granger says with a smile, but there's a bit of steel beneath her politeness. 

Graves's smile just widens. "Perhaps." He looks back at Draco. "I realise you and Potter are headed back to London for the afternoon and evening, but if you could write up a report for me before you go, I'd be quite appreciative." 

Draco nods, and Graves tilts his head to both of them, then turns on his heel and strides away, his hands in his pockets, utterly ruining the line of his suit. 

"That man," Granger says, watching him turn the corner towards the lifts, "is a complete snake-in-the-grass bastard." 

Draco doesn't disagree.

Granger glances over at him. "I assume you got more than you told him?"

"Whyever would you think that?" Draco gives her a small, tight smile. He's not telling Granger yet either. 

"But you're going to talk to Harry first." Granger's mouth quirks up at one side. "For an Occlumens, you're terribly easy to read, Malfoy."

"Oh, I didn't intend to hide that at all, Unspeakable Granger." Draco raises his eyebrows. "You're my SIO in name only. You know that as well as I do."

Granger gives him a long, even look. "We'll see, Malfoy." She turns on her heel and starts down the corridor, her heels clicking against the tiled floor. She glances back over her shoulder. "Are you coming or not?"

Draco shakes his head wryly. "You're a curious one, you know."

She just smiles wider and quirks a finger, beckoning him.

And Draco follows, with only a quick, unsettled glance back at Eddie Durant's door.

***

Blaise's sat beside Althea at a table in their makeshift incident room, Pansy and Draco sharing the desk his right, Pansy perched on the top of it, Draco swivelling from side to side in the chair. Martine and Espinoza are leaning against the wall next to the door, both of them looking as if they'd rather be anywhere than here. Blaise doesn't blame them. Jake and the guv are leading the meeting from the whiteboard, and the tension between them's still there at times. Mostly when they disagree on what tactic to take. Jake pulls jurisdictory rank, and that narks Potter off. Rather a lot, and Blaise feels somewhat obligated to take the guv's side, but mostly only because it'll affect the way he does his own work. And that makes Jake scowl at Blaise, a slightly tragic, definitely offended expression on his face that he tries to hide to no avail. Even Draco picks up on it, giving Blaise a curious glance and a raised eyebrow. Blaise just shrugs and leans back in his chair, the thick line of Jake's prick in his dark grey trousers right at eye level. It's not a bad view, although it's not the easiest thing to look away from, either.

Draco's having about the same problem with Potter, Blaise realises, judging from the way Draco's cheeks are flushed and he bends forward in his chair, elbows on the desk, letting his hair fall into his face. 

"We want everything you can weasel out from their precinct about prominent citizens," Jake says to Martine and Espinoza. "Especially anyone above the age of fifty or with connections to the Russian community in Boston."

Martine crosses her arms over her chest. "So, basically most of Brighton Beach is what you're telling us."

The team laughs, and even Draco smiles at little, though his gaze drifts back to Potter, and the mood in the room lightens.

"Yeah," Jake says, rubbing the back of his neck. He catches Blaise looking at him, and they lock eyes for a moment. Blaise's trousers suddenly feel a bit snug and his blood is beating in his throat, and all he can think of is the way Jake's mouth felt against his on Friday night. He's wanked to it all weekend, and he lets the memory of the way his prick had felt in his hand slip to the surface, enjoying the flush that spread over Jake's face. Jake looks away first, back to Martine, who's narrowed her eyes and is glancing between them. She's a smart one, Martine, and Blaise gives her a small, pretty smile. Martine doesn't look impressed. Jake clears his throat and says, "Pretty much." His voice sounds a bit rougher than before. "I want to know who this goddamn Old Man is."

Pansy just glances over at Blaise, then rolls her eyes, settling back in her seat. Althea snorts in amusement from Blaise's other side, and he ignores them both, his attention going back to Jake.

"We'll look at immigration records, see if we can track his movements," Espinoza says from the door. She rubs at her nose; it's reddened and peeling a bit. She'd gone over to Jersey for the weekend with friends, spent some time on the beach, or she'd told him when they were each getting coffee from break room. Blaise misses Margaret and her tea cart coming through twice a day. He's tired of coffee and the odd snacks the Americans put out, terrible crisps and bars made out of disgusting muesli. He'd give his left bollock for one of Margaret's pumpkin pasties right now. Espinoza stretches against the door jamb; Blaise wonders what else burnt over the weekend. Her shoulders at least, he'd guess by the way she's rubbing one of them against the wall. "There might be something that pops out."

"You want us to call you if anything gets interesting?" Martine asks, looking between Potter and Jake. 

"That'd be great." Potter puts down the whiteboard quill. His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, the top button of his shirt's undone, and his tie's loose around his neck. And Blaise is fairly damn certain that's a half-healed love bite on the guv's throat, almost hidden by the curve of his collar. "My team'll gather what we can from the British side and see if there are any other known aliases or even magical signature fragments in our records that have escaped us."

Blaise eyes the guv, who's looking at Draco. Potter'd told them at the beginning of the meeting that he and Draco'd both be in London for eighteen hours so the guv could testify for Draco's father today. Blaise had been intrigued by the testy look on Draco's face--he would've assumed Draco'd be champing at the bit to go back home, although he and Potter have managed to cocoon rather nicely in the forty-ninth floor, so perhaps Draco's just reluctant to leave their love nest. Frankly, Blaise would like to have such problems but alas. He glances back at Jake's crotch, and Althea's knee hits his thigh beneath the table they're sharing.

"You're being rather obvious there, Zabini," she mocks gently, under her breath, and Blaise knows she's looking out for him. He doesn't know when exactly it happened, but they're starting to have each others' backs, all of them, even Althea his and he hers. According to Potter, Blaise and Althea'll be paired up to do legwork when the chance comes tomorrow morning to trace Dolohov's movements on the ground, and Blaise, much to his surprise, is rather looking forward to it. Today, though, they're all stuck reviewing unclassified files from the Russian community of Brighton Beach, looking for any traces they can find of this Old Man or of Dolohov for that matter. Blaise thinks they'll spend a lot of time with newspapers and translation spells, two of his least favourites parts of police work. Espinoza and Martine get to do the more exciting classified work with immigration and the local Auror records. Blaise is bloody jealous, but he supposes jurisdiction allows a certain amount of privilege. It's not as if the British Ministry would let American Aurors dig through their classified files either. 

It's a touchy business, liaising with the Yanks, Blaise has to admit. There are too many parties of interest, and closer ties between the Auror force and the Unspeakables than Blaise is used to. Jake as an Unspeakable reports to Graves, and Martine and Espinoza do as well, as Aurors, although their division also has a head Blaise hasn't met yet, although he's heard scathing remarks about Chief Auror McGowell. And now that Granger's in the mix, they've got British Aurors and Unspeakables thrown together as well, and Draco's being awkwardly shared between them as a newly deputised intelligence asset. Blaise actually feels sorry for the poor bastard--Draco's looking tired and uneasy today, and Blaise knows he was at Bonavista this morning talking to Jake's brother. Blaise had been talking to Jake before the meeting--flirting, really, to no bloody avail--and Jake'd been jumpy until Draco had walked in and given him a brief nod, saying nothing more than _He's fine. An arsehole, but fine._ Jake's shoulders had just relaxed, and Blaise'd realised how much Jake's been carrying on him, worrying about his brother.

"Tim and Paloma's team is going after the missing weapons from the warehouse," Jake says, leaning against an empty desk. "As is Goldstein with Hermione's assistance."

Pansy snorts from Blaise's right. She mutters, "Arsehole," under her breath, but it's not as harsh a condemnation as it could be. In fact, Blaise thinks it's almost affectionate, and Circe, they're going to have to watch her. Or Blaise will. Draco's so damned caught up in the guv that he's not paying any bloody attention to the rest of them, and Pansy's about to implode her entire life, and not for the first time. 

Blaise knows Pansy fucked Goldstein again this weekend --she'd said as much at dinner last night over fish and chips and dark ale. The Financial District's a brilliant place for fake British food, and there's a brew pub near the hotel that isn't awful. Blaise wonders briefly how it is now his lot in life to stand chastely by as both of his best friends get shagged rotten-- Draco's basically dating Potter now from what Blaise can tell, going out to dinner last night with Granger and Weasley, for fuck's sake, and that's not what two blokes who are just fucking do--and even Althea's getting action from complete strangers, but Blaise can barely get a snog and a bit of a rub from a bloke he fucking well knows is into him. Blaise tries not to stare at Jake, fails, and when he glances over, Jake's lips are curved into a small almost-smile, and he's not exactly looking at Blaise, but he's not exactly not looking at him either.

"So who's tracking the prisoners?" Draco's looking between Jake and Potter both. "Harkaway and Weiss."

"In theory, us," Jake says, looking over at Potter, then back to Draco. Blaise's heart thumps a bit louder. This can't be easy, but they're all acting as normal as possible, given the fucked-up sexual dynamics at play. Blaise knows Draco spent the entire weekend working with Jake, and he's terribly jealous, but also glad it's not him. He never would have stayed professional. At least Draco and Jake dislike each other; Blaise is half-grateful to the guv for that. "Graves has asked us to do bio work on them both. I think Tim and Paloma have intel on them as well."

Pansy raises a hand. "What about the Hand of Glory? Who gets that?" And of course she wants that. Blaise feels a wave of affection for his girl. She's as broken as the rest of them, he thinks, in her own way, but he loves her. Sometimes he wonders if the two of them would have ever worked. There'd been a time when Pansy'd been in love with him. Blaise knows that. It'd been in seventh year, after she'd realised Draco was bent, and she'd found herself in bed with Blaise. They'd been good at sex, the two of them, and they'd spent most of that god-awful year lost in each other, whilst Draco had been consumed with his own fears and panic. 

They're better as friends though. Blaise knows that, and he hadn't disagreed with his mother when she'd suggested he end it. He thinks Pansy hasn't entirely forgiven him for that, though. There are moments when Blaise wonders if her infatuation with Goldstein is just a substitute for what they'd once had. He'd never say that to her though. She'd accuse him of being vain, and perhaps that's all it is. Blaise is terribly conceited, even he can't deny the fact.

Jake turns a bright, wide smile towards Pansy. "Well, we did discover it, thanks to you, so I think we have a right to look, but it'll also fall under the weapons category for the other team, so we'll need to share what we find." He glances back at Draco. "Malfoy, did you find out anything further this morning?"

To Blaise's right, Draco sighs. The circles under his eyes are terrible and there's a rough patch of skin on his jaw. Probably from Potter's stubble, Blaise thinks, scowling at the guv who just blinks at him. Blaise looks back over at Draco--when he comes back from London, Blaise is going to abduct him and take him to a day spa. His skincare routine is suffering horribly with all of this commotion. But it's a blessing, Blaise remembers, that the Mark seems to be hurting him less. He's not even holding the arm to his chest now.

"Your brother did admit to the Hand of Glory delivery." The corner of Draco's mouth quirks up, which means Draco rather likes Eddie Durant. Interesting, Blaise thinks. "And he practically admitted it was incomplete, as Pansy surmised. He was attacked by Dolohov, and Stunned, but not killed, despite being a witness, which suggests that Dolohov was angry but not fatally so."

Jake nods. "I've been tempted to Stun the goddamn bastard myself."

They share a quick, wry look. Blaise's jealousy seethes and roils inside him. He knows it's ridiculous. Draco's arse over tits for the guv, not Jake, after all, but that doesn't stop Blaise's spurt of envy, his wish that it'd been him and not Draco who'd been pulled out for Legilimency training. It's not fair, Blaise thinks, and he hates how uncharitable he feels towards his best friend, but he can't seem to help himself. 

Merlin, he just needs to get laid. Ease some of these bloody stupid Veela hormones a bit. Blaise thinks about seducing Pansy again. It'd take her mind off Goldstein, he thinks, but it'd be the stupidest thing he could do. He knows that. His gaze drifts over to Espinoza instead. She's made it clear she wouldn't mind a tumble, and Blaise is pretty damn certain she'd be a great shag.

Draco leans forward, tucks a lock of hair behind his ear. "Eddie also said things that implied he's been working with Dolohov for years, although Anna Picquery was quick to stop that line of questioning." Draco pauses, his elbows splayed across the desk, Pansy looking down at him. "He was a bit more forthcoming when Graves proposed dropping the charges as a bargain."

Jake's chewing on his lip, looking into the distance. Blaise can practically hear him thinking. "Yeah. I can see how he would be."

They're all silent for a moment, allowing Jake a bit of space. He shakes his head and sighs, then gives them all a faint smile. 

"It'll be all right," Martine says, looking at him, and Jake nods. 

"Christ, Eddie's a fucker," Jake says, and he runs a hand through his hair. Potter raises his own hand, as if he's going to settle it on Jake's shoulder, and then he hesitates before letting it fall to his side. 

Everyone pretends they don't notice, except for Draco, who looks evenly at the guv, his face stony. Jake glances over at Draco, then towards Blaise. Blaise doesn't look away.

Potter turns back to the whiteboard, studying it for a moment before he says, "Well, I think that's all, unless we've something else to discuss?"

Everyone looks around. Jake shrugs. "Nope. We're good. We'll meet up again as a group on Wednesday morning. Separate team meetings tomorrow. Harry, you and I'll check in with each other after you and Malfoy get back in and before Malfoy and I do another round of training. Sound good?"

Potter nods, and Martine says, "Drinks tonight? Not Potter and Malfoy, I suppose, if they're off in London." The look she throws the guv's way is a bit caustic, and Blaise is reminded how much she dislikes Potter. He's a bit offended for the guv's sake, but Potter just gives her an amused look. 

"Don't curb your drinking for our sakes," Potter says. "We certainly won't." The look he turns on Draco's warm and soft. "Will we?"

Blaise watches Jake's mouth tighten, Draco's face light up. "I think we'll be all right," Draco says, his voice quiet, but everything he feels is written right across his face. Blaise doesn't fucking know how the guv hasn't figured it out by now. Draco's not hiding a goddamned thing at the moment, and Blaise looks over at Pansy. Her face is troubled when she catches his gaze, but she just shakes her head, barely enough for Blaise to see, but enough for him to know what she means. 

There's nothing either of them can do to keep Draco from getting hurt. Not any longer, at least.

"I could do with a beer or two," Blaise says, trying to draw everyone's attention from Draco and the guv. Not to mention a hell of a lot of fruitless pining along with his pints, he thinks, his gaze flicking towards Jake, who's still looking at Potter, his face closed off. Circe, but Blaise wishes he knew what Jake's thinking. 

"Me too," Althea says, and she leans an arm against Blaise's shoulder. "Six o'clock good?"

Martine eyes Espinoza, who nods. "We'll come by and grab you," Espinoza says. "Parkinson, you'll be in the lab?"

"I'll meet you here." Pansy gets up, stretches. "I'll need a break from that bloody Hand of Glory by then." She stops for a moment to talk to Draco, leaning down to murmur something in his ear that makes him flush and give her a scowl, albeit tinged with the slightest bit of exasperated affection. Pansy laughs, glances towards the guv, then heads down the hallway to her lab. Martine and Espinoza confer with Jake for a moment, then leave to go back to the bullpen.

"Want a coffee?" Althea asks, standing up. Her dark hair's braided into a tight, severe twist at the nape of her neck, her crisp black shirt's tucked into a pair of tailored olive trousers and unbuttoned low enough for him to catch a glimpse of the tight black jersey camisole she's wearing in place of a bra.

Blaise shakes his head. "I'm good, thanks."

Althea glances back over at Jake, who's gathering his files back up. "Be careful, mate," she says quietly. "You don't want to be the rebound."

"I know." Except Blaise isn't sure that he does. Althea just gives him a long look before she follows Martine and Espinoza out the door.

Blaise tells himself he wants to talk to Draco before he goes, to ask him to pick up a package from his mother with a few summer things and items he'd forgotten, even though he knows she could send it via transatlantic post and it'd show up just as quickly. He pushes himself out of his chair, unfolding his long legs as Draco turns to the guv and says, "Do you and Durant have a moment? I've something I'd like to talk to you both about, and I didn't want to bring it up in the meeting."

"Sure," Potter says, and his gaze flicks towards Blaise.

"I could go." Blaise feels like he's listening in, but he really doesn't want to leave yet, or wait in the hall awkwardly. This is his incident room, after all. 

Draco shakes his head. "I don't mind Blaise being here," he says. "I just didn't want this on the official record." He hesitates. "And I don't know how loyal Espinoza is to Tom Graves," Draco says bluntly. "I didn't want this getting back to him."

Jake sets his stack of file jackets down on the corner of Blaise's table. "Smart of you," he says. "Alma's a good one, but she trusts Tom a bit more than Martine and I do." He studies Draco. "What's up?"

"Eddie sent me an image privately of Les Harkaway taking the Mark." Draco's voice is low; it trembles the barest bit, but all three of them catch it, Blaise realises. Draco's fingers brush his forearm through the white cotton of his dress shirt. 

Potter's face is troubled. "Dolohov has the ability to give new Marks?"

"It seems so." Draco chews his bottom lip. "Which would explain why the Mark flared so violently for me." He clenches his left fist, and Potter reaches for him, pulling Draco up against him, his hand settling on Draco's shoulder. "It's not a skill that was restricted to the Dark Lord himself. My Uncle Rodolphus was given the privilege of Marking me with the Dark Lord beside him."

"Jesus," Potter murmurs into Draco's hair, and Jake looks away as Draco relaxes against Potter's body. Something twinges deeply in Blaise, a twist of jealousy and bitterness and an outrage at Potter's bloody insensitivity. He wants to move over towards Jake, wants to put his own hand on Jake's arm, make Jake look at him instead. 

He stays where he is. 

Draco draws in a slow breath, then pulls away from Potter. Blaise can tell he's reluctant to, though. "Eddie saw it, and I don't think he could have imagined that. It matched up far too well with what I remember from my own Marking. Harkaway definitely took it."

"What about Weiss?" Jake asks, his voice a bit rough. "Did he?"

"Eddie didn't show me that." Draco's face is sober, worried. "I saw Weiss being pulled from his cell, but right after that's when Dolohov turned on Eddie."

Jake swears under his breath, pushes his hair back from his forehead with both hands, and stands there, a stricken look on his face. "Eddie let you see this?"

Draco nods, looking at Jake. "Pushed it into my mind, and thanks ever so much for that warning that your brother's a Legilimens too."

"I told you he could do some things," Jake says, his voice blunt. "I didn't know he could do that. It's not something he managed well when we were younger. He could pop phrases and words into my head--"

"He can hold whole fucking conversations now," Draco says, and Jake rubs the back of his neck, exchanging an uneasy glance with the guv. 

"Eddie hasn't told you this?" Potter asks, his voice quiet, and Blaise hates that Potter can ask Jake that with such obvious familiarity. 

"No," Jake says, his face unhappy. "That fucking capon."

Blaise lets his hand brush against Jake's elbow. He barely notices, and that stings. 

Draco folds one arm over his thin chest, his other palm pressed to his face. He's lost in thought, Blaise realises. He's seen that expression on Draco's face for years. 

"What?" Potter asks Draco, and Draco looks over at him, blinking, then back at Jake. 

Draco drops his hand, letting it fall back against his folded arm. "Graves was in the room when Eddie shared that image. Can Graves see something he sent me separately?"

"Not necessarily." Jake shakes his head. "Generally, another Legilimens can't overhear those sorts of direct conversations. Also, Graves should only have been taking the pulse of the room, not scanning properly or the recording would have been buggered."

Draco just nods thoughtfully. "That's good then. Eddie wanted me to tell you what happened. Not Graves."

Jake's silent for a moment before he says, "What do you think it means?" He looks at all three of them. "We're not used to that sort of thing. Not here. We've got our own problems, let me tell you, but nothing like your Voldemort. Not yet, at least."

Blaise exchanges a glance with Potter, then Draco. "It can't mean anything good," Blaise says. "Between that and Draco's Mark…" He trails off, the weight of it all settling on his shoulders. He remembers the War years, and he'd had it easy, hiding out in the shadowed corners of the Slytherin common room, refusing to engage with any of the ideologues, heeding his mother's warnings to stay out of things as best he could. He'd even drawn away some from Draco at that time, although it hadn't been hard to do, really. Draco'd barely noticed anyone at school those last two years. Blaise can't really blame him for that.

Potter doesn't say anything, and then he sighs. "My scar flared. About a week before….' He looks over at Draco. "Well. Draco's incident." 

And don't think Blaise doesn't notice the use of Draco's first name, or how Draco just takes Potter's hand, slips his fingers between Potter's. He's pretty damned certain Jake does too. That's something to ask Draco about later, Blaise thinks. Once he gets back from London. Definitely.

"Your Horcrux scar," Jake says, and his eyes go to Potter's forehead. So do Blaise's. 

Potter looks at them both, then nods. "I'd prefer to keep it quiet for now. But Kingsley knows. So do Gawain and Croaker."

"And Granger," Draco adds. He looks at the guv, and Blaise can see the worry on his face. 

"Shit," is all that Jake says. Blaise rather agrees. "What are you going to do?" Jake asks Potter. 

"Wait for now," Potter says. He's standing close to Draco, almost protectively. "See what happens." He looks over at Draco. "Draco's had it worse than I have, let's be honest. I'm more worried about him."

Jake sighs and runs his hands over his face. "Jesus, Harry."

They're all quiet again, and then Potter glances at the clock in the corner. "We have to leave," he says to Draco. "The Portkey."

Draco nods, disentangling himself from the guv. Potter lets his hand slide away; Blaise can tell he doesn't want to. Draco walks over to his desk, bending down to grab his satchel. He rights himself, turns towards Jake. "By the way, I think your brother knows the Old Man." 

Jake stills, then scowls. "Of course he fucking does." He swears, this time in French and more vehemently. For a moment, Blaise thinks he's going to kick the table, but Jake just pushes himself up, his hands in his pockets. "Goddamn bastard."

"He wouldn't say anything about him though." Draco looks over to Potter. "Granger could ask Croaker to give us a scan of live births, see if anything obvious turns up." He settles his satchel over his shoulder.

Potter nods. "Perhaps. It'd be a bit harder to search, especially before 1960. The records are a bit wonky in spots. But we can try." He turns to Jake. "If you need anything, ring my mobile. I'll have it off in the hearing, but I'll ring back if you leave a message."

"Sure," Jake says, and Blaise knows he won't. Not unless all hell breaks loose, and even then, Blaise is fairly certain Jake would try to contain the maelstrom himself before he pulled Potter and Draco back in. "Good luck," Jake says to Draco, and the guv and Draco are gone before Blaise can remember he meant to tell Draco to pick up the package from his mother. 

Blaise waits a moment, watches Jake pick up his file jackets again. "You all right?" Blaise asks finally. 

"Why wouldn't I be?" Jake flips through the top file, not looking at Blaise. 

"I don't know." Blaise eyes Jake as he slaps the file shut, reaches for his biro. "You didn't seem entirely comfortable there at the end."

Jake shrugs. "You're not disturbed that Harry's scar is hurting--"

"That's not what I mean." Blaise pushes himself up, walks around the desk to stand in front of Jake. "You saw what I did. The way they were acting."

And Jake looks at him then, his face shuttered. "I've got work to do."

 _You could have me to do,_ Blaise wants to say. Instead he just steps back, lets Jake brush past him. "Are you ever going to be over him?" Blaise asks quietly, looking away. He feels Jake still, stop a step away from him. "Because he's so fucking over you, Jake Durant."

Silence stretches out between them. Blaise can't look over at Jake, won't look at him. 

"Christ, you're an asshole," Jake says from behind Blaise. "You know that, right?"

Blaise does. 

And when the door to the incident room slams shut behind him, rattling the clock on the wall, Blaise sinks back onto the edge of the desk, wondering what the bloody fuck he's even doing.

He presses his fingertips to his browbone and breathes out. 

Merlin, he just needs to get fucked, to walk away, to get over Jacob sodding Durant and whatever this sodding stubbornness is that keeps drawing Blaise back into this emotional backdraft. 

Blaise drops his hands, stares blankly at the whiteboard. He knows there's no fucking chance of that happening. 

For the first time in his entire life, Blaise hasn't the slightest intention of doing the reasonable thing.

And that? That terrifies the damned hell out of him.

***

Draco stands in the middle of their hotel sitting room, in full British Auror uniform, his work satchel on one shoulder, a small bag containing a change of clothes for both him and Harry hanging from the other. The diplomatic Portkey's in his hand, his fingers curled around the small plastic cassette tape. Honestly, he knows the Ministry's keen to use Muggle items for Portkeys now, just in case they're found, but this is ridiculous. Harry'd had to explain to him what the hell it was to begin with. He glances down at it. He doesn't know who the fuck would actually want to listen to something called _Best of Queen, Vol. 2_ anyway, but it's starting to get a reddish glow around the centre where the countdown's going to pop up. He's just grateful Granger'd pulled strings to keep them out of the MACUSA Portkey terminal. Harry'd had to use it again when he'd gone to Paris on Friday, and it'd taken him over half an hour to get back into the country, even in an express queue.

"Merlin, Harry," Draco calls out. "If this bloody thing goes off on me and I end up in London alone, do you know how sodding annoyed I'm going to be? You can piss at the Ministry. They've loos there too."

"Did you pick up the bag of clothes?" Harry's voice drifts out from the bathroom. 

Draco swears he won't kill his boyfriend. Not yet at least; it's all a bit too new for that. But he is going to start hexing him if he doesn't fucking get out here. "Yes. It's on my bloody shoulder. All you need is your work satchel." The cassette tape grows warmer in his hand. "Harry, come on. It's about to start counting down."

He knows he's being a bit peevish. Draco doesn't care. He's tense enough as it is, going back to London with Harry. It seems like a different world; they're stepping out of their little cocoon, their comfortable existence here where no one cares that he spent last night sprawled across Harry's bare chest. Draco knows it's mad, particularly in the middle of a case like their working now, but he feels as if going home is stepping back into a reality that he's not certain he can handle. He feels unsettled and tight and terribly nervous.

And that's not even adding his father into the mix. Draco's steadfastly refused to think about that, not that it's helped. He'd woken up in the middle of the night with a panic attack, almost unable to breathe after a dream of his father drinking in his study woke him up. It wasn't a dream, though, not really. It'd felt too real for that, and Draco knows it was a memory, a scrap of something his traitorous brain had dredged up from that horrible year and pushed to the forefront of his consciousness. Durant had warned him that might happen as a training-induced side effect, but that'd been the first time anything had been so crystal clear. Draco hadn't realised he could remember in that sort of detail, that he could smell the stench of whisky on his father, that he would be able to see the deep, blank hopelessness in his father's eyes, feel the air stirring beside his head as his father threw the empty glass Draco's way, screaming at him to get the hell out, hear the crash of the etched crystal against the wall behind him. 

Draco tries to put it out of his mind, but he can't. It keeps drifting to the surface, making him feel petulant and restless, as if there's something stormy and dangerous brewing up inside of him. He doesn't want to do this. Doesn't want to sit beside his mother in the hearing in half an hour. He looks at his watch. It's half eleven now, which means it's half four in London, and they're due in Courtroom Eight by five o'clock on the dot.

"Harry!" Draco doesn't even bother to keep the annoyance out of his voice. "I swear to fucking Circe--"

The loo flushes and Draco hears the rush of water into the sink. "Hold on," Harry says, and there's a tinge of irritation in his tone as well. Draco wonders if this can count as their first argument as a couple, but he doesn't think so. Not really. This is just every-bloody-day exasperation, he suspects. He and Harry are never going to be a quiet, gentle romance. What they have is bombastic. Epic. The kind of _something_ that destroys lives, ruins careers, rips hearts apart, perhaps never to be stitched back together properly. 

And when Harry walks out of the en suite, a scowl on his lovely, ridiculous, square-jawed face, dressed in his formal Auror inspector's uniform and wiping his still wet hands on a small towel, Draco knows he wouldn't want anything else. 

"You're a fucking prat," Draco says, but what he means is _I'll go anywhere with you that you want me to._

Harry tosses the towel down on the coffee table and picks up his work satchel from the desk. "We'll be back here before tomorrow morning," he says, and when he turns around, there's an understanding in his eyes that makes Draco uncomfortable. "I promise."

"I'm not an idiot," Draco snaps, but Harry just rests a hand on Draco's hip, his other curving around the _Best of Queen,_ and somehow the ire starts to seep out of Draco with that touch. He doesn't know how Harry bloody grounds him like this, but he does, and Draco feels less high-strung, less overwrought, as if there's something about Harry's body touching his that makes Draco settle. Calm himself. Not think that the entire world is going to come crashing down around him in a wave of panicked anxiety.

"Never said you were." Harry looks at Draco. His glasses are smudged at the bottom, and Draco can tell he's nervous too. Draco reaches over, twists his fingers in Harry's shirt, steadying himself, drawing in a slow, soothing breath, and Harry asks "Better?"

"A little." Draco feels a right tit, but Harry's just watching him still. "You're worried too."

Harry doesn't answer at first, but then he sighs. "Yeah. I don't know what to expect." His hand moves to the small of Draco's back, pulling them both a bit closer together, and his fingers stroke down the curve of Draco's spine, pressing against the wool of Draco's Auror jacket. "You were in the _Prophet_ yesterday."

"I know." His mother had told him. Not the details, of course, but enough for Draco to know the story wasn't entirely complimentary. He looks over at Harry. "Does that bother you?"

"Not in the way you think." Harry's eyes are green and bright. "They're fuckers, you know."

A small smile tugs at the corners of Draco's mouth. "I am aware. It's not the first time I've been in the papers, Harry. Nor the first time in an unflattering way." He moves closer; the Portkey's pressed between the two of them, their fingers wrapped around it. Draco can feel it getting warmer, and he knows it's counting down. "And as I recall, I was responsible for a few particularly vicious stories about you during our school days. So perhaps this is my penance."

"I don't wish it on you," Harry says quietly. "I'd do anything to make them fuck off--"

"You can't." Draco leans his head against Harry's chest. He can hear the soft thump of Harry's heart. "You know that as well as I do. Ignore them, and they'll go away. Journos like Quirke and Skeeter, they're scavengers. Carrion birds. Don't rot in front of them, and they'll go somewhere else."

Harry presses a kiss to Draco's forehead. "Not bad advice."

"Occasionally I can give it." Draco breathes in the scent of Harry, the crisp soapy-muskiness of him. He feels the Portkey start to tremble in their hands, and he lifts his head, looks at Harry. "Whatever happens over there," he says, struck by an uneasy sense of urgency. "We'll get through it. Promise me that."

"You know I do." Harry smoothes Draco's hair back from his forehead; Draco misses Harry's touch on his back. Harry cups his palm around Draco's cheek. "Whatever happens, I'll be there."

And Draco believes him. 

He feels the hook of the Portkey, the sharp tug in his stomach, and he grips Harry's arm tighter, clinging to him as they spin off towards England.

It's all he can think to do.

***

Jake throws a stack of old memos up in the air, blasting them to shreds with his wand and letting the scraps drift back down to the floor of his office. He always enjoys this pastime when he's furious--Jake knows it's immature, and he could give a damn about that. It calms him down, lets him have the thrill of destructive force without ending up in a holding cell for slashing a hex across some idiot's face. He always cleans up after himself, and he doesn't let the spells make a lot of noise, unless he's not in the office. He'd blasted most of Harry's old stuff left in his apartment the other day, all the detritus of a failed relationship: a toothbrush, an old t-shirt he'd found in the back of his dresser, a photograph of the two of them at Coney Island, a book Harry'd been reading before he left. He'd felt better afterwards.

Marginally.

He watches as the bits of parchment swirl through the air around him, anger roiling through him.

How dare Blaise fucking say that, about Jake not moving on, Jake thinks, and he throws another blasting curse, shredding the last remnants of the parchment even further. They fly higher up into the air, a thousand tiny pieces twisting around him, and Jake just tightens his mouth, barely sees them. Goddamn it, he's totally over Harry, and he doesn't know why people think he's not. They've said their goodbye. Jake's done with that bastard, washed his fucking hands of Harry James Potter and his myriad issues. They're working side by side, and sure, it gets awkward with Malfoy in the middle, especially when Harry won't stop touching Malfoy in front of everyone and keeps his goddamn hickeys on his neck like a stupid lovesick teenager, for Christ's sake. But that's just unprofessional behaviour, and Jake has a right to find it nauseating. He would even if it were Martine parading about the office like that, and she's his best friend. 

And it's not like the team isn't a bit too overconnected as it is, Jake thinks, what with Harry and Jake's past, and now Malfoy, and the connection between Parkinson and Goldstein, and then of course Blaise--and Jake's mind just stutters away from that for the moment. At least Whitaker is uninvolved for now, but Jake's seen Martine and Alma make out at parties when there's a bit of tequila in play, so who knows how long that will last? He keeps getting images of Parkinson from the edges of Whitaker's mind when she's not paying attention, so she probably has a crush or something herself. Jesus. It's like those fucking No-Maj soaps his Aunt Eula used to watch on tv when she thought no one was watching. Everyone fucking everyone else, or wanting to at least, and Jake wonders how long it's going to be before everything implodes.

Jake thinks about fucking Blaise, about how it'd feel to touch that soft skin, to sink into that perfect arse of his, and his dick jumps. Jake hates himself for it, hates the way his body responds to Blaise, the way Jake wakes up at night sticky and shaking, like he hasn't since he was a goddamned teenager. 

Besides, Blaise is just a horny little shit, however posh and sexy he is. He's developed some sort of stupid crush on Jake, and he just wants to screw Jake to put another notch on his bedpost. He's flirted with half the floor, Jake thinks, having watched him make friends throughout the DMLE in a bloody week. Blaise will have no trouble finding bedmates if he changes his hunt. Alma for one. Jake's seen the way she's looked at Blaise. And fine, if that's what the two of them want, then great. They can fucking go for it. If it'll keep Blaise from pressing that long, lithe body against Jake's, then Jake's fucking in favour of them falling into bed together. Assholes, both of them. 

Anyway, Blaise is too goddamn immature to be worth starting anything with. Jake's done with younger men. He's going to find himself a nice older guy, settle down with him, maybe buy a goddamn house in the suburbs. Well, that might be going too far. Jake's not moving to fucking Jersey; he's not that desperate. But Jake wants someone he can talk to, someone he can sleep with and wake up with and drink coffee with. Someone who will be there for more than just a shag and bragging rights to his fucking friends.

 _Had the guv's ex, I did_ , Jake can imagine Blaise saying to Parkinson--or Malfoy, and that's worse, isn't it? A wave of pure rage crashes over Jake, and he grabs a MACUSA paperweight from his desk and throws it across the room, thinking better of it the minute it leaves his hand. He sweeps his wand towards the paperweight, catches it before it smashes against the wood panelling of the wall. He's breathing hard, and he's still angry. 

Still hurt. 

He Levitates the paperweight back to the desk and drops it onto a stack of papers before slumping back into his chair, his heart aching. 

The shit of it is that he'd thought maybe he'd been wrong about Blaise. That maybe Blaise actually did want him. That he was interested in Jake. 

Jake drops his wand onto his desk and rubs his hands over his face. 

_What the hell are you doing, Jacob Bouvier?_ he asks himself. _Being a goddamn fool?_ He drops his hands, looks across his paper-strewn office. Jesus. It's ridiculous, all of this. How angry he is. How empty he feels. 

How much he still misses Harry, and maybe Blaise is right. Maybe Jake can't entirely let Harry go, but then again, Harry's had a two-month head start, hasn't he? More even. Harry'd walked out of the MACUSA Portkey terminal with the scent of Malfoy still on him, hadn't he? And it'd never left. The whole time Harry was here with Jake, there'd always been Malfoy, and Jake had been too fucking stupid to realise it. 

Jake presses his palm to his forehead, his elbow on the desk. He breathes out. There's nothing he can do to compare to Malfoy. Not in Harry's eyes, and Jake knows it. Whatever's going on between the two of them, it's deeper, stronger than anything Jake had ever had with Harry. Jake sees the way Harry looks at Malfoy; he'd never looked at Jake that way. As much as Jake'd loved Harry, Harry'd obviously never felt that way about him in return. Jake knows it now that he can see it written across Harry's face whenever Malfoy's in the fucking room.

And Jake and Harry'd been together for two goddamn years. Mostly. Jake wants to laugh at the absurdity of it all, but he thinks it might just hurt a little too much. 

When the phone on his desk rings, Jake's surprised. He's not getting a lot of calls since he's been away, although the news is slowly circulating through MACUSA that he's back. He's even had a few people stop by this week, sit down to catch up with him. Jake has to remember he has friends here in New York, that this is his home. He's got himself too caught up with the British team, and that's just goddamn stupid.

Thinking it's probably a wrong number, Jake answers the phone. "Durant here."

Cozza's voice on the other end immediately throws Jake into high alert. "Jake, you've got to come up to Bonavista. We've got a situation here."

Jake barely has the presence of mind to ask, "Can you tell me over the phone?" He's already reaching for his keys, flicking his wand at the shredded parchment to Vanish it. 

"Just come," Cozza says, and his voice is tense. Jake's been in law enforcement long enough to know that tone. "Now." The line goes dead.

Jake vaults himself out of his chair and sprints to the MACUSA Floos. Thank Christ they're mostly empty at this hour and he doesn't have to wait in line. He goes into Bonavista through the ground level entrance, so it takes him time in the lift up to the floor he knows Eddie's room is on. His heart is beating in his throat the whole time, his stomach twisting. He pushes the lift button twice on the way up, knowing that won't make it go any faster, but needing to do something anyway.

Immediately when the lift doors open onto the Major Spell Damage floor, Jake smells trouble, along with the acrid stench of hex spells hanging in the air. It's chaos on the ward, with Aurors in the hall and lab techs in clean suits already conferring near the meditech station.

Cozza meets Jake in the hallway outside the room that Eddie had been in. "Jake, man. Eddie's gone."

At that Jake almost sinks to his knees, a well of unexpected grief swelling up in him. Cozza looks alarmed, grabbing at Jake's arm to keep in upright, then says, "Oh, shit. I'm so sorry. I meant, he's not here anymore. Not that he's dead. He's not in his room." He pauses and throws a glance at the door. "He might have been taken. We don't know yet."

It's not much better, but Jake steadies himself. "What the fuck happened?"

Jake listens dully as Cozza rattles off the details. There's a section of the monitoring spell erased so they can't determine how Eddie went missing. Not yet at least, although the magiforensicologists think they might be able to restore part of it, but it'll take some time. Cozza and Møller had been right outside the door, but they hadn't heard anything, not until there'd been an alarm that'd gone off. 

"It was like this when we came in, man." Cozza pushes open the door to Eddie's room, and Jake follows him in.

Shreds of pillows and sheets cover the floor in a light carpet of fabric and down. A mug and a tray have been hurled against the wall, hard enough to shatter. The mattress is scored with deep slashes, its stuffing poking out, and it's hard for Jake to ignore the scorch marks around the bed and the blast cracks in the armoire. Honestly, it's a terrifyingly violent scene.

"Do we know what spells were cast?" Jake asks, and Cozza shakes his head. Møller's in the corner, his head bent towards Annabelle Castellaw, the chief magiforensicologist who Jake knows must be leading the team outside.

"Not yet." Cozza's hand settles on Jake's arm. "We'll find him."

"Yeah," Jake says. He feels numb. Shaken. He draws in a deep breath, tries to put aside the fact that this is his brother who's disappeared, tries to look at it with an Unspeakable's dispassionate eye. 

The clean-suited lab techs file in, and Jake puts his hands in his pockets, watching them. The other Aurors are mostly in the hall, although they wander in and out to check the progress and relay details. Jake can see what happened but he can't put it together into a coherent whole. Eddie is gone. Eddie, his brother, has disappeared from a secure ward at Bonavista. Eddie has got himself mixed up in more than he can handle.

And Jake feels guilty. If only he'd insisted on coming this morning, if only he'd visited him before Malfoy interrogated him. Maybe Eddie would have told him what was going on, instead of sending some half-assed message through Malfoy. 

There's shouting in the hallway, a raised voice ordering them to run traces of Harkaway and Weiss and every goddamn known associate of Antonin Dolohov's, for fuck's sake. Jake'd heard Cozza say that they hadn't found any suggestion of Dolohov's signature yet, so maybe it is premature to worry about that. Still, he does. Of course he does. Why did Eddie get himself mixed up with the fucking magical nazis?

"What the fuck is he doing here?" Tom Graves is standing in the doorway, gesturing at Jake but yelling at Cozza.

"I called him immediately." Cozza's kind face is ridged with a frown. "It's his brother."

"He can't be here, and he fucking knows that." Graves walks into the room, anger radiating from him. "Durant, get the hell out of here before you fuck up my crime scene."

Jake blinks at Graves, and he feels a bit sick. Graves doesn't look away; his jaw only tightens. Jake could fight him, could insist on being a part of the search team, but he knows it wouldn't get him anywhere. 

"Okay, Tom," Jake says finally, and he turns around, lopes back into the hall. He can feel the other Aurors watching him, hears Graves barking out orders again. Honestly there's not much else he can do. He stands looking at the door, a little beyond the immediate scene of the room but still inside the security cordon. He feels surreal, as if he's watching something play out around him. It'd been different at Greenpoint. He'd had Eddie to focus on, to worry about. 

Now, Jake feels adrift. Lost. Unable to do a goddamn thing. He doesn't know what has happened to his brother and it's beginning to hit him what a fuckton of trouble Eddie's in. _If he's still alive,_ his brain helpfully supplies, and oh, Christ, Jake did not want to open up that can of anxiety. He tries to breathe, tries to settle down his racing thoughts.

It doesn't really work.

He almost thinks he's hallucinating when he sees Blaise come running down the hall from the lifts and talk his way through the guards. Blaise spots Jake, inclines his head for a moment, and then approaches Jake with his hands out, a gentling gesture that Jake recognises from his own Auror training. 

"Look," Blaise says, his voice low. "I know you're angry with me and you probably don't want to see me right now, but I was the only one in the incident room when the news came in." Blaise's sharp eyes scan Jake's face. "What happened? Is Eddie--"

"You're a goddamn fucker," Jake says, cutting Blaise off. It's petty, and he knows it is, but he means it. He really, _really_ means it.

Blaise nods, a slow tilt of his head. "Yeah, I can be." He looks unapologetic, and Jake actually respects him for the levelness of his gaze and his refusal to back down. "But I wasn't wrong." 

They stand there, looking at each other. Jake takes a deep breath. "You probably weren't," he says after a moment. "But you're still a fucker."

"Are you going to let me help?" Blaise asks, and Jake turns away from him, his shoulders hunching, his arms folded across his chest. His gaze settles on Eddie's room and a rush of fear and worry trembles through him. Christ, but Eddie's always been like this, always frightened Jake this way, always made Jake afraid that he was going to be the last Durant standing, that he was going to be the one left alone. Jake almost hates his brother for it, for that old, twisting scar across his soul. 

"Jake," Blaise says, and his voice is so gentle, so careful that Jake looks back at him. Blaise is watching him, his face sober, and Jake almost believes that Blaise means his offer of help. Maybe he's not a complete fucker after all. 

"Eddie's gone." Jake's heart breaks on those two little words. "I don't know how or why. Graves kicked me out of the scene."

Blaise looks down the hall at the door with the Aurors huddled around it, then back to Jake. "Okay." He rubs the back of his neck, and Jake can see the Auror in Blaise kicking in. Assessing the scene, his mind jumping to possibilities, outcomes. "What can we do now?" 

Jake just looks at Blaise. He feels blank. Shocked. It's seeping into his marrow that his brother is missing, that Dolohov could have him, or someone else who Eddie has double-crossed, and Jake's sure that there are plenty of people who want his brother dead, jealous husbands first and foremost, but also cheated customers, people he's hustled in pool, wizards and witches Eddie's just pissed off for the hell of it. His brother's a charming asshole, but Jake's under no illusions that Eddie's a saint. He never has been.

Blaise's face is sharp with concern, watching, and then he nudges Jake a little to the side, to a bank of chairs. "Sit," he says, and Jake sits, his legs spread out in front of him, shoulders leaned back against the wall.

"I can't do anything," Jake says, and the enormity of it's hitting him now. "Graves is right--I could fuck everything up by being in there." He presses his hands against his face, tries to breathe out. "He could be dead--"

"Stop." Blaise takes the chair next to him. "We'll find him. He's going to be okay. He's resourceful." Blaise's earnest, concerned, and Jake's heart is broken in his chest. "I can go get the rest of the team." He moves to get out of his chair. "We'll--"

Jake puts a hand out on Blaise's arm, stopping him. "No. Could you just…"

Blaise waits, listens.

"Could you just sit here with me for a minute?" Jake's voice is raw in his throat, and his chest feels tight and constricted. He just wants to breathe. Just wants to take a moment, to gather himself.

Blaise sits back down. Jake puts his elbows on his knees, staring down at the tiled floor.

Eddie has nine lives, but Jake's not sure this time. He might just be the only Durant boy left, but he wouldn't even know because Eddie's vanished into thin air. And Jake's sat in the hospital corridor, Blaise's hand settling warm and careful on his back, Jake's fears almost overwhelming him. 

Whatever's going to happen next, Jake needs to be prepared. Even if that means finding Eddie's lifeless body cast aside somewhere.

Jake covers his face with his hands and just breathes out. 

He's not ready for this. Any of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, you can subscribe to this fic for chapter updates, or you can subscribe for series updates [here on AO3](http://archiveofourown.org/series/661862) or follow me [on tumblr at femmequixotic!](http://femmequixotic.tumblr.com).
> 
> I continue to be on vacation still (yay for the academic year), so Chapter Nine of These Secrets In Me will be posted on Sunday, 30 July, or possibly at the latest Monday, 31 July, depending on when the hell I can get a wifi connection next weekend. Noe and I are now travelling to visit sassy-cissa this week for a Special Branch Summit! \0/


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Harry testifies, Blaise and Althea get some fresh air, and there is a family dinner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a banner week! We had a Special Branch Summit! It was amazing! Plans were made and lemon drop martinis were drunk. Millions of kisses to sassy_cissa -- Noe and I miss you horribly, darling!
> 
> This is the second-to-last chapter of These Secrets in Me. There will be one more chapter next week, and then a short posting break before the third book starts. And there's going to be a fourth book as well--we definitely established that in our summit. <3
> 
> Keep your belts on tight--there are still LOADS of plot hurdles to come.
> 
> In other news, it's July 31. Happy Birthday, Harry Potter!!!

It's been years since Harry's been down into the Ministry courtrooms. One of the benefits of working with Luxembourg has been not having to be an Auror witness in criminal cases; Harry'd always hated that part of the job. It'd reminded him of the first year of his Auror training that he'd spent constantly being called before the Council of Magical Law, testifying in the swathe of Death Eater trials that had consumed the entire DMLE after the War.

He'd spoken on behalf of the Malfoys that summer, fulfilling his debt to Narcissa for saving his life that night of the battle by doing everything he could to keep her son and husband out of Azkaban. And now he's back for Draco's sake, trying to keep his father safe and alive. Things come back around in odd ways, Harry thinks, as he takes his seat on one of the hard, carved, high-backed wooden witness benches behind the barrister's tables.

The courtrooms are much as Harry remembers them being--cold, lightless, echoing underground--and Courtroom Four is the smallest, a half-circular room with a raised dais along the flat end and two rows of thickly padded gallery benches that curve against the walls for those watching the proceedings. Chief Warlock Tiberius Ogden and two other Wizengamot judges--Charles Grimblehawk and Portia Penrose, if Harry recalls correctly--are sat behind a table on the dais, in their dark robes and high, toque-like hats, white ascots embroidered at the edges in silver and red draped across the front of their robes. Unlike the trial Harry faced as a teenager -- or any of the ones he testified in after the War--this hearing doesn't require a full complement of judges. However, Eleanora Gambol, the liaison for prisoner affairs, is also sitting on the panel, on Grimblehawk's side and has a vote in the proceedings. Hermione had warned Harry that Gambol would be tough on the transfer; she's a staunch opponent of any attempt by the International Confederation of Wizards to interfere in British policy. 

And at that thought, Harry's gaze drifts over to the edge of the room. Since Lucius Malfoy's hearing involves an intervention by the International Wizarding Court of Justice into British magical law, Nadia Daifallah and her legal team are in a special bay to the side, also in sombre formal robes. They're officially here in formal observer status, but they do have a right to challenge a decision they disagree with. In practice, Hermione says this never happens. Harry wonders if that'll be the case today.

Harry's sat next to Gawain behind the empty prosecution's desk, and he's nervous. He knows he has little to lose, that his testimony's just a formality, and that he can't make or break the decision, but still. This is Draco's father, for Christ's sake, and Harry's standing in for Draco as the arresting Auror of record given the unusual circumstances of the raid on Malfoy Manor. Harry looks back behind him. Draco's hair catches a stray beam of lamplight in the shadows of the chambers, shining bright against the heavy wooden panelling behind the visitor's gallery. His mother and Andromeda Tonks flank him, a grimly poised, elegant trio. Draco looks at Harry, frowns at him slightly, and Harry gets a quick mental push, a sharp poke in the back of his brain. 

_Turn back around and stop drawing attention to us, you idiot._ Draco's glance flicks towards the press pit; Harry's gaze follows. It's unusual to have journalists at a hearing like this, but Gawain had warned Harry and Draco in advance that Kingsley had agreed to a select group of media representatives, given the events of early Friday morning. The very whisper of the Morsmordre being seen again, even on another continent, had the press in a frenzy; the Sunday papers and tabs had been full of editorials, not only in Britain, but across Europe. To be honest, Harry doesn't like having them here. It's not that he's anti-press. Well. He is in a way; they've mostly made his life a living hell, but he recognises their importance. But he knows what's going to be said, knows how it'll be misinterpreted, and Harry's bloody tired of the bollocks that's swirling about in the wizarding papers.

And then there's Orla Quirke, leaning forward amongst the tiny handful of journos who've been allowed to cover the hearing, dark auburn hair twisted up into a loose knot held in place by two pencils, her notepad perched on one knee, quill floating above the blank page, her pointed, pale face turned towards Harry. She's watching him curiously, then she turns, craning her head to look back towards Draco. It's all Harry can do not to flip two fingers her way, but he knows Draco will murder him in his sleep if he antagonises her.

So Harry settles back in his seat, trying to ignore Draco as best he can. He smoothes the front of his jacket down, straightens his cuffs so the red piping along them lies even. His pulse is racing a bit; he swallows, trying to quiet his anxiety. Harry's always hated trials, perhaps it's from having been falsely accused so often himself, or perhaps it's from the heavy-handedness of his aunt and uncle in whose eyes he could literally do nothing right. He's not sure why, but he never fails to have pre-trial jitters. It doesn't help that he's having trouble looking Gawain in the eye right now--his ire at what Gawain said to Draco about their relationship is still high, hot and acid in his chest.

Millicent Bulstrode leans over the defence desk, conferring with Avery, their heads bent together as they flip through a file. Lucius Malfoy is stood behind them both, his hands bound in front of him, flanked by Hassan Shah and Unspeakable Rayne. He looks like shit, Harry thinks. Tired and pasty, his prisoner's robe hanging off his shoulders. The dark circles under his eyes are enormous, and Harry wonders if he's been sleeping at all. Possibly not. If his Mark's gone off, he might not be able to. Merlin knows Draco's had trouble, and that worries Harry more than he'll admit.

Harry turns his head, catches sight of Saul Croaker seated in the far side of the gallery, keeping a beady eye on the proceedings. Harry'd missed him at first glance, and seeing Croaker now, he marvels at how conspicuously unobtrusive the head of the Department of Mysteries is, how you forget his face almost the moment you've seen him.

Tiberius Ogden calls the session to order with a small, wooden gavel. Harry stands, along with Gawain, straightens his posture, arms behind him, in parade rest. He's taken extra care with his appearance for Draco's sake, if nothing else. He doesn't know how much more he can do, and he feels bloody inadequate in the face of everything Draco's having to deal with in this hearing. It was a ridiculous idea, he thinks, assuming Draco wanted to witness this, and Harry half-regrets asking Hermione for the extra diplomatic Portkey. But when they'd arrived half an hour ago, Narcissa'd looked so damned happy to see her son that Harry's hoping Draco might forgive Harry his presumption.

"We are here in an extraordinary session," Ogden says, shuffling a sheaf of parchment in front of him, "to consider the detainment and custody of Lucius Abraxas Malfoy, prisoner record number daeg-eolh-eight-four-two." Ogden looks up at the defence desk with a frown. "Mr Malfoy is being held on counts of attempted sedition, material support of criminal activity, possession of unlawful magical substances with an intent to harm, and treason. Counsel has filed a motion for his transfer to the International Wizarding Courts of Justice in Brussels. As this is a hearing only and not a trial, there is no prosecution. All questioning on behalf of the Ministry will be conducted by myself or my fellow judges. Counsel, would you please state your case?"

The treason charge is news to Harry, and he wonders what evidence has been gathered in their absence from the DMLE. He hasn't had the chance to confer with Robards about the case, but it seems as if the Department of Mysteries has been busy in the nine days he and his team have been gone. Harry glances over at Gawain, but the Head Auror doesn't look back at him, although his jaw tightens a bit, and that worries Harry even more. Harry can't help but look back at Draco. He's sitting as still as he can between Andromeda and his mother, his face blank and schooled. But Harry knows Draco's not calm. At all. He can tell by the way his hands are clenched against his thighs, and Christ, Harry just wants to walk over to Draco and wrap his arms around him, holding Draco as tightly as he can. He doesn't give a fuck who's watching. It takes everything Harry has to look away, back towards the panel of judges and Eleanora Gambol.

Avery clears his throat. "In light of the exceptional recent miscarriage of prisoner safety in the Auror holding cells, and the extremely prejudicial political circumstances that would influence any subsequent trial of law in England, Counsel petitions to have the imprisonment and trial of Lucius Malfoy moved from Britain to the auspices of the International Wizarding Courts of Justice, Brussels, and so tried according to magical concords of the International Confederation of Wizards."

Ogden nods, but he doesn't look happy. "Thank you, Counsel. The panel would like to hear from the Chief Unspeakable and head of the Department of Mysteries, Saul Croaker, concerning the detainment of Mr Malfoy."

Croaker pushes himself up and approaches the centre of the room, moving slowly, his bushy white hair falling into his face as he stops before the panel. 

"The Unspeakables have been housing Mr Malfoy within the department's holding cells," Ogden says, eyeing Croaker over the rims of his rectangular spectacles. "Is that not the case?"

"You would be correct." Croaker pushes his hair back off his forehead and folds his arms over his chest. Harry hears Gawain snort softly beside him, murmuring something under his breath about _that arrogant sod._

Ogden frowns. "Counsel seems certain that the Department of Mysteries is unable to offer a safe haven for the defendant at this time. Would you concur, Unspeakable Croaker?"

Croaker takes a moment before he says, "Our facility is utterly safe, and I would, without the slightest hesitation, suggest that the Unspeakables of the Department of Mysteries do not share with the Auror force the same issues of…" Croaker hesitates here, turns ever so slightly to glance back at Gawain and Harry. "Morale, should I say?"

"Fucking bastard," Gawain says under his breath. He's tense, his whole body as taut as a spring, Harry thinks. 

"So you are against Mr Malfoy's removal from your holding cells," Penrose says from Ogden's left side. She's younger than the other two, her dark hair only showing the slightest touches of grey at the temples. 

Croaker looks back again at Gawain, his smile thin and tight. "On the contrary. The Department of Mysteries would like to state uncategorically that we offer no opposition to this transfer, should the court deem it fit."

A rough intake of breath ripples around the courtroom, and everyone looks at Croaker. Harry frowns. It seems Hermione's right that Croaker would rather not be responsible if anything happens. It also seems to be a vote of no-confidence in the safety of English penal institutions which looks bloody damned bad for the Auror force as a whole. Harry can't help but wonder what Croaker's playing at here.

Grimblehawk scowls at Croaker, peering down his sharply hooked nose. "So does or does not the Department of Mysteries feel confident that it can continue to protect the safety of the prisoner, should he remain in England?"

"The Department of Mysteries considers our holding cells to be as safe as any English location for Mr Malfoy." Croaker's face is inscrutable, but he glances towards Eleanora Gambol. "Perhaps safer than many other places we've placed prisoners in, given recent events."

It's obvious Croaker means Azkaban and the Auror holding cells, also perhaps the situation in Greenpoint. Shah stiffens at Lucius's side, as does Gawain next to Harry. Christ, but Harry hopes this isn't going to devolve into an interdepartmental scuffle. He honestly has no fucking idea where his loyalties lie any longer.

Nadia Daifallah stands, catching Ogden's attention. Her braids are loose today, hanging down the back of her dark grey robe. Ogden nods at her, and Nadia asks, "Would Chief Unspeakable Croaker consider the prisoner safer in the ICW prison facility at Brussels than in England?"

Croaker pauses, then says, "In comparison, given the security restrictions in place at Brussels? Most likely." He frowns. "Primarily because our holding cells within the Department of Mysteries aren't meant for long-term prisoner housing."

The members of the panel look at each other as another whisper goes around the courtroom. Harry hopes this isn't a bad sign. Penrose and Grimblehawk look thoughtful, and Ogden's kept his expression blank. Gambol, however, seems well furious, judging from her scowling expression and small, irate huffs. She obviously was counting on Croaker to be less sympathetic to the ICW. 

"The panel would like to speak to Gawain Robards, Head Auror," Ogden says, and, as Croaker walks away, Gawain steps forward, his mouth a tense line. The two men don't even look at each other as their paths cross, and Harry doesn't like that. Not one bloody bit. 

Whilst Gawain takes his place before the panel, Ogden flips open another file jacket, showing it to Penrose and Grimblehawk, who glance down at the parchments, then nod. Gambol tries to look, but the judges are quick to close the file jacket before she can get a glimpse, as far as Harry can tell. Ogden clears his throat and asks, "Head Auror Robards, given the responsibilities the Unspeakables have taken on for Mr Malfoy's care, how are the Aurors involved in this case?"

"We were the arresting force," Gawain says, his voice tight, "and we took Mr Malfoy into custody."

The judges exchange looks amongst themselves. Gambol rests her elbows on the table, and says, "But you didn't retain custody of the prisoner."

"I rather think that's not crucial to the request under discussion," Avery says from the defence table. Harry glances over at Lucius Malfoy. He's standing silently, his mouth a thin line, his hands still bound in front of him. He looks defiant, though, and Harry can see the resemblance between him and Draco. It's disconcerting, really, and Harry has to look away.

"Agreed," Ogden says with a frown at Gambol. "But, Head Auror Robards, how did Mr Malfoy come to be in the Department of Mysteries holding cells?"

"The raid on Malfoy Manor was a joint operation between the Unspeakables and the Aurors," Gawain says. "And the Auror holding cells were occupied with other prisoners." There's a moment's pause, and a murmur from the gallery. Harry knows the press are scribbling all of this down; he doesn't even have to look Orla Quirke's way. "It was considered to be the best way at the time to spread the burden of custody."

"Were those are the prisoners who were recently murdered?" Penrose asks, even though they all know the bloody answer.

Gawain's face is grey. "Regrettably, yes."

Tomás Furtado da Luz holds up a hand from the ICW bench, and Ogden nods his way. "Did the choice in Mr Malfoy's custody arrangements have anything to do with the severity of his suspected crimes?" 

Gawain considers for a moment. "No, not in any significant fashion. The other prisoners were equally involved. There was no distinction."

"Was it due to internal staffing considerations?" Gambol looks right at Draco as she says this. "Considering that Mr Malfoy's son was an Auror on the arresting team."

"That had nothing to do with it either, and everyone here bloody well knows it." Gawain's nostrils flare, and his gaze darts towards Orla Quirke. "The Hit Wizards were helping us staff the cells--there was no distinction between the types of custody other than location."

"And yet, three prisoners are dead, and Mr Malfoy is alive." Harry's not sure what tree Gambol's barking up, but it's obvious Gawain is furious about what she's implying. Harry wishes he felt any sympathy, but he's more concerned with the attempt to discredit Draco's status as an Auror. "And Mr Malfoy's son was involved in the arrest."

"I would like to remind the panel that Sergeant Draco Malfoy is not involved in this trial," Ogden warns, with another sharp look at Gambol. "Lucius Malfoy is."

Harry doesn't dare look back at Draco again. He sits as still as he can, his shoulders stiff, trying his best to keep his fury from rising. The last thing he needs to do is to set Ogden's bloody file jackets on fire. Especially in front of the press.

"Sergeant Malfoy has an excellent service record with no complaints registered," Gawain says to the panel. "And the team he was on during the arrest of Mr Malfoy, his father, was led by Inspector Harry Potter."

At that, Harry can feel every eye in the room turn towards him. His face heats, but he tries to keep himself composed. Ogden watches him, then sucks his teeth a bit, and nods.

"Perhaps we should hear from Inspector Potter now," Ogden says, narrowing his eyes at Gambol, who sits back, her lips pursed. Harry steps forward; Gawain touches his shoulder as he passes. 

"You'll be fine, lad," Gawain says, and Harry feels himself relax, if just a little. Harry lets himself look back towards the back of the room, towards Draco who's meeting his gaze evenly, carefully. His face is blank, but Harry feels the soft sweep of Draco's thoughts against his mind like a calming, cautious caress that sends a shiver through Harry's whole body.

 _Later, Harry._ There's a whisper of amusement to Draco's words, and Harry gets a quick, brief flash of Draco sprawled beneath him on their bed in Grimmauld Place. 

Not helping, Harry thinks, and when he looks back over at Draco, there's a soft, small smile curving his lips. 

"Inspector Potter," Ogden's saying, and it takes everything Harry has to drag his attention back to the Head Justice, "can you tell the panel what the circumstances of Mr Malfoy's arrest were?"

Harry's mouth feels like it's full of cotton. He swallows, but it doesn't help. His throat's dry and rough, and he coughs. The courtroom's waiting, faces turned towards Harry expectantly. He can hear the thrum of his pulse in his ears. Another cough, another quick, calming touch of Draco's mind against his again, and Harry manages to say, "We arrested Mr Malfoy at his home in Wiltshire after connecting his property to criminal activity." He glances over at Lucius Malfoy; Draco's father's just regarding him with what seems like a bored, if slightly amused, sneer.

"And was Mr Malfoy involved in criminal activity at the time he was arrested?" Penrose seems sympathetic.

"No, sir. He was breakfasting." Harry stares ahead of him, aware that this makes him look a bit foolish, but also determined to make the situation less severe for Lucius. Still, there's a swell of quiet laughter around the room, and Harry glances back past Lucius at Draco who's giving him a fondly exasperated look. He looks tired, Harry thinks, and he wonders if Draco's trying his Legilimens too much. 

"Inspector Potter, have you ever testified for Mr Malfoy before?" Gambol has a sour expression on her face.

"How the bloody hell is that relevant, Eleanora?" Ogden sounds beyond irritated now.

Gambol smiles, but it's sharp and feral, and Harry thinks she's the last person he'd trust in this room. Prisoner's liaison his arse. "I'm just trying to establish a history of the case."

Ogden shakes his head. "Again, this is really not relevant to the matter under discussion."

Harry keeps his expression calm, but his whole body's tight and taut, and he wants to turn on his heel and stride out of the courtroom. The only thing keeping him still is knowing that he's doing this for Draco, that he _wants_ to do this for Draco. He lets his gaze drift back towards the visitor's gallery. He knows it's foolish, but he needs to see Draco's face, needs to watch Draco as Harry says, "It's public record that I've testified on behalf of the Malfoy family, Ms Gambol. No one here is surprised by that. You could go to the Wizengamot archives and read exactly what I said. Narcissa Malfoy saved my life during the Battle of Hogwarts, and I know for a fact that she and Lucius Malfoy as well as their son Draco defected from Voldemort's side--" There's a quick gasp around him as he dares to say the name, even eight years later, and Harry really wants to roll his eyes. Jesus, he hates this part of the wizarding world, the fear that still exists at the mention of a bloody name. He turns, looks over at Narcissa Malfoy and her son. "I would speak for them again, for those same reasons." He glances at Lucius, his mouth thinning. "I'm not saying Lucius Malfoy is innocent, but he deserves a fair trial, and a safe place to be held."

"And that's not the Department of Mysteries, in your opinion?" Grimblehawk asks. He studies Harry with slightly rheumy, red eyes. 

Harry hesitates, then looks between Croaker and Nadia. They're both watching him, curious expressions on their faces. "No," Harry says finally. "I'm not certain any place in the Ministry is safe for Lucius Malfoy. Not right now."

There's a long silence in the courtroom. Harry can see Orla Quirke's quill flying across her notepad. Christ only knows how she's twisting his words. At least she's not Rita Skeeter. 

Yet. 

Ogden steeples his fingers beneath his chin, then sighs. "Inspector Potter, does Mr Malfoy represent a flight risk in your eyes?"

Harry takes a moment to consider. "He didn't attempt to run away, if that's the question."

"Would the Inspector remind the panel what was found at the Malfoy property in Scotland?" Grimblehawk asks. The look on the wizard's face is severe, sour. Harry's pretty sure he'll vote against moving the elder Malfoy. 

"Soul Grass, sir. And prisoners who escaped from Azkaban." A slight noise runs through the room. This is a serious accusation that will end up in a serious trial, Harry knows, and Lucius Malfoy is guilty as sin. But he damned well doesn't deserve to be killed in custody or to be tried without a chance at a fair verdict.

"Do you think Mr Malfoy will receive a fair trial here, Inspector Potter?" Nadia's voice is level as she interjects a question from the side bench, and Harry turns towards her.

"I'm honestly not sure, Ms Daifallah," Harry says after a moment. "I would hope we would be fair, as I always hope our trials are fair, but this one seems difficult not to be prejudiced against."

"And why is that?" Penrose says, and she gives Harry a small smile. She's definitely sympathetic, Harry thinks.

Harry draws in a deep breath. "The defendant is well known from prior cases. As Ms Gambol remembers, he was tried at the end of the last War. I spoke on his behalf then, and, as I said, I'll speak now. Mr Malfoy is an easy target for this new Death Eater registration activity, and he's an easy person to hold accountable, but I'm not sure the easy, obvious judgment or popular opinion is always fair." He looks up at the judges and Gambol on the dais. "What Mr Malfoy's counsel is asking for isn't madness. We wouldn't have the Senior Advisor to the International Wizarding Court here with us today if it were." He glances at Nadia and she smiles at him. "I would encourage you all, sirs and madams, to consider the prisoner's safety above all." His voice grows quiet. "No one deserves to die the way I've seen prisoners die over the past two weeks. No matter what they may or may not have done. And if we're going to let that happen, if we're going to leave a high-risk prisoner like Lucius Malfoy within a risky setting like our current prison system…" Harry shrugs, and he can feel Gawain's gaze boring into him. "Are we any better than Antonin Dolohov or Arnie Peasegood?"

"Thank you, Inspector Potter," Ogden says, cutting Harry off. Harry hesitates, but he knows if he says more, it'll have no effect. So he nods, and he turns on his heel. 

A muscle in Gawain's cheek twitches as Harry takes his place next to him.

Harry doesn't know if he's had any positive impact. He hopes the ICW team will consider what's been said, hopes the judges will have heard him, but he has no idea how the Wizengamot deliberations will go.

He's done all that he can do, and Harry's left with the sinking feeling that it's not nearly enough.

***

Jake hesitates outside of Graves' office, pausing at the half-open door, and Angelica eyes him from behind her parchment-strewn desk. She's tall and willowy and oh-so-very Greek with a delightfully sharp nose that suits her strong features, her golden-brown hair braided in a crown that wreathes her head. "Might as well beard the dragon in his lair," she says in a quiet voice, frowning at Jake. "But I will warn you, he's in a mood."

Jake shrugs, his hands in his pockets. "So, same as always then."

They exchange knowing smiles. It's true: Graves is always in some sort of foul temper. Angelica's the first assistant of his who's lasted past a year, and Jake's fairly certain it's because she can throw a snit back at Graves when he pushes her too far. They're well matched, those two, and Angelica's smart, clever, and bloody well not going to put up with anyone's bullshit, even the Director of Magical Security's. Frankly, she's the only one in the damned office who isn't afraid of Tom Graves, and Jake suspects Graves likes that about her. It must get tiring to terrify everyone who crosses your path, Jake thinks.

If Jake didn't know better, he'd think Graves had some sort of bile or blood pressure issue, but Graves is fit as a fiddle, able to keep pace with Jake at a four-mile course on the track downstairs in the MACUSA basement. He's just an angry, temperamental bastard by nature, Jake thinks, and Jake curses his lot that he has to come here to talk to Graves about his fool of a brother. But he wouldn't be doing his fraternal duty if he balked at a bit of bad temper from Graves, would he? His mama would expect better of Jake, for fuck's sake, and doesn't Jake resent the fact that he has to take care of his older brother still? Forty goddamned years old and Eddie's still caught up in this shit, and Jake wants to punch his brother in the fucking ball sac when he finds him. If he finds him. Jesus. Jake glances at the half-open door to Graves' office, and he takes a deep breath. Jake's shaky still from this morning, but he's getting used to the idea that Eddie's in the wind, abducted perhaps, but hey, nothing's certain, right? Jake rubs the back of his neck.

Why can't he get rid of his feeling of deep dread, then? This isn't the usual type of case, even if the usual is pretty bad lately. This is his brother, gone, in a violent display of curses and hexes, from a hospital room with an Auror guard. An Auror guard that Jake fucking trusts, so he doesn't think it's come from inside MACUSA. Jake didn't even get a chance to ask the Healer if his brother was supposed to be on potions still.

"Are you coming in or not, Durant? I didn't think flirting with Angelica was your thing." Graves barks, voice commanding from the inner office. "Even if she thinks she has a dick."

As Angelica rolls her eyes and calls back, "Don't make me send a memo down to human resources again," Jake squares his shoulders and walks into the room.

"Hello, Tom," Jake says as he lowers himself into a chair. He tries to project calm, concern even, but he keeps his Occlumens at the ready. He doesn't trust Graves any further than he can fucking throw the bastard. Fortunately Tom's aware of that. 

"What the fuck were you doing at Bonavista this morning?" Graves' fierce expression has an almost palpable psychic edge. He scrawls his name at the bottom of a piece of parchment, folds it up, and sends it zipping out to Angelica with a flick of his fingers. So it's to be that sort of meeting, Jake thinks. Where Graves makes it clear he's a more powerful wizard. Jake tries not to snort as Graves leans forward, his shoulders set tight and high, trying to puff himself up, make himself look larger, more threatening. "You know better than that, you asshole. You could have fucked up the whole scene, and where the goddamn hell would we be then?" His sneer is scornful. "I ought to write you up."

Graves's going to play nasty, Jake thinks, and he instinctively shrouds his thoughts in a layer of misty silence. Sometimes the best shield is blurred and vague, Jake knows. A hard shield shows your opponent immediately that you are hiding. An indistinct edge makes them wonder.

"Sorry. Cozza called when it happened, and I was concerned," Jake says. He needs to keep his explanations short, simple. "I didn't touch anything."

Graves just looks at him, his scowl deepening on his face. "You better be fucking glad of that. The last thing I want to have to deal with is Hendricks from Prosecution down in here shouting at me because you were a goddamn asshole idiot." Graves' face twists. "Over that fucking brother of yours. Christ, Jake." 

Jake holds his tongue, looks away, does his best to keep the surge of anger that rolls through him at bay. He's just grateful he doesn't have Harry's issues with his temper. He can only imagine how Tom would shout at him if he set something on fire in here. Like that goddamn painting of the Salem Twelve. Christ, if Jake has to hear one more time about Gondolphus Graves and the sterling reputation of the Graves family who'd landed with the Mayflower on fucking Plymouth Rock, Jake's going to stab Tom himself with his wand.

He keeps that spiteful thought tucked well behind his Occlumens. And just in time, really.

"Do you know where Eddie is?" Graves asks, his voice sharp, and there it is. Jake can almost see Graves' Legilimens, feel the force of it on his mind. Tom's not even bothering to hide it, and why should he? They're both professionals, and when Jake signed his MACUSA contract, the Unspeakable one that'd given him access to classified data, he'd agreed to mental interrogations when necessary. It doesn't mean that he can't keep his Occlumens in place, though. Graves'll have to break through that first. "Were you there this morning to help him?"

"No," Jake answers, and it's the truth. He doesn't know where Eddie is, and that terrifies him. He lets a bit of his cavernous worry slide past his own shields. "And I'm a fucking Unspeakable, Tom. I wouldn't help Eddie break out of holding. I never have, and I never will." Even if this is different from any trouble Eddie's gotten himself in before, Jake thinks. "Besides, I was in the office when the call came in from Cozza. How the hell would I help him escape?"

Graves looks furious. "There are elements to the scene that suggest part of the charm used to break the wards on the room might have been done from a distance." His eyes narrow. "We're still pinpointing the precise location, but our techs are fairly certain it was located in Lower Manhattan."

This surprises Jake. "What do you mean?" he asks, but he can tell from the set of Graves' jaw that he isn't going to give him anything else. 

"Stop fucking with me, Durant," Graves snaps, and his Legilimens slashes through the outer edge of Jake's shield. "You're hiding something, and I goddamn want to know what it is."

Jake's alarmed--this is severe, even for Tom Graves whose manners can be described as rough and abrupt at the best of times. "I don't know, Tom. What else do you know about my brother's disappearance?" Jake pushes back, containing the intrusion and flexing his neuromancy muscles. Graves may be good, but he's no match for Jake and they both know it. Jake doesn't shove too far with his Legilimency--Jake's not a complete idiot--but he gets a definite whiff of fear and desperation. Over Eddie? Jake doesn't quite understand what's going on. Eddie's a witness, not really a suspect. They all know that, even if Eddie's a giant fuck-up who's broken more laws than Jake wants to think about, just with this little escapade of his. "Why are you after me for an explanation?"

Graves scowls, but pulls back his Legilimens. "If I find out you know anything about this you're not telling me...." He lets the condition hang for a moment in the air between them. "Forensics are still processing the spells. It's going to take hours to figure out exactly what happened, but we don't have anything we can trace yet on Eddie's whereabouts." The look he gives Jake is suspicious. Angry. 

And that makes Jake fucking furious himself. "Tom, my brother could be lying dead somewhere in the Greater Manhattan area--or further, because fuck knows where they took him--and you're worried that _I_ have something to do with it. Why the fuck would I hurt him? And if I knew something that could help you find him, why the fuck wouldn't I tell you? He's my brother, and I love him." He rubs a hand over his face. "I can't choose the people Eddie works with, but he's really got himself into the shit this time."

"I have to ask." Graves steeples his hands and watches Jake. "You know that. Your goddamn brother has been at the center of two of the worst suspect escapes we've had in years--both in the past week, for Christ's sake, and I have to make sure he didn't have inside help." And Graves's mouth pulls down at the corners; he leans forward, letting his hands fall down to his desk blotter. He drums his fingers over a file. "Look, you asshole, I know you've managed to get the custody Aurors to turn a blind eye to your brother's activities in the past. I know you've even managed to have charges against him dropped, just because you were willing to vouch for him, and you've managed to get even the fucking bastards in Prosecution to like you." Graves scowls at him, and Jake folds his arms across his chest, suddenly uncomfortable. He hadn't realised that had been noted too. But fuck it, he'd promised his mother he'd keep Eddie out of Oudepoort too, and he's going to keep that damn promise, even if it destroys his career in the process. It's fucking Eddie, after all. 

Graves sighs. "Given all that, I have to be certain you know nothing about this, and you're better at shutting me out than I am at finding out what you really think, so how the goddamn fuck do you propose I do it?" He meets Jake's gaze evenly. "So if you don't fucking give me something to protect you in the long run…." Graves holds his hands up. "I'll throw the goddamn book at you as well, Jake. I swear to God I will."

And with that threat, Jake has no other choice--he drops part of his Occlumens and lets the director feel the full brunt of his worry about Eddie. Graves shifts in his chair for a moment, frowning, sifting through the raw emotion, clinical in the face of a maelstrom. Jake feels laid bare--he's pretty sure there are some images of Harry in there, but focusing on them will make it worse. Jake's too vulnerable right now, in ways he's terribly uncomfortable with, and he feels like he's being slowly flayed alive emotionally. The training with Malfoy's not helping--the kid's quick and needs a strong hand in training, but it takes a hell of a lot out of Jake, especially when those images of Harry, happy and laughing and hot as goddamned hell, slip through Malfoy's consciousness, ripping yet another hole in Jake's bruised heart.

What Jake needs is a vacation--load up his battered red Jeep, fill a cooler with a case of beer, and disappear down the coast for a while, maybe Virginia or the Carolinas. He'd think about going down to the Gulf, but he hasn't been back home since Katrina hit last August, hasn't been able to face the devastation yet. He'd sent money and supplies for the magical relief efforts and housed Eddie in New York for two months, made sure his mother's family were taken care of and his father's too, at least the ones that still speak to him, but Jake doesn't how he can process the monumental loss of life, dignity, and lack of common humanity that tore apart his community when the levees broke and Lafourche Parish was covered with water. He knows the erasure of familiar markers will be only the surface of what's changed, and he's not ready to face those yet, to see the place he loves and he hates ripped open, wounded and weeping still.

Sometimes Jake thinks he's a goddamn coward.

"All right." Graves says at last. He leans back in his chair and runs a hand over his face. "I'm sorry I can't put your mind at ease. We don't know who took him either."

The office is quiet as they sit without speaking for a long pause, Jake trying to get his thoughts back together, Graves quiet, inward almost, the roll and twist of his thoughts barely a flicker at the edges of Jake's mind.

"Tell me about Malfoy's training," Graves says finally, when Jake has mostly collected himself. "Is it still going well?"

Jake settles back into his chair. "Yeah. As well as can be expected, given the circumstances. He's a quick study, picks the basics up fast, although he needs to work on his control. He's still very much a novice, after all, even if he's talented." He eyes his boss, uncertain as to where this is going. "Why?"

Graves just nods, swivelling in his chair and looking out the window for a moment. He taps his finger against the edge of his desk before asking, "Would you consider him a good addition to our resources, if he stayed here?"

Evidently, this day is determined to strip away any remnants of pride Jake Durant has left. "Sure," Jake says, his lips pursing as if swallowing a sour truth. "Malfoy's uncannily good, but I've told you that already. With more training, he could actually be great." Institut Tirésias level great, even, but there's no fucking way Jake's going to admit that to Graves right now.

"Could you work with him?" Graves' eyes are sharp, scanning Jake's face. "Closely, I mean."

Jake considers. He doesn't particularly like the knowing glint to Graves' look, but he supposes it's foolish to think he or Malfoy can hide anything from the Director of Magical Security. Especially about the strain between them, or the green-eyed assshole causing it. Truth be told, Jake's not really sure Malfoy or Harry are that concerned about hiding their relationship or whatever the fuck it is. Jake seems like the only one who doesn't want to broadcast the situation, given the way Harry and Malfoy look at each other, touch each other in front of the whole of MACUSA, but Jake's also the only one not getting laid six ways from Sunday. 

_But you could be,_ his mind helpfully supplies, and Jake pushes that thought away before it can form into the feel of Blaise against his body, the taste of him on his lips, the rush of fluttering desire in his veins.

"If I had to, sure," Jake says finally, and oh, how those words cost him. "He's easy to train, and he's got a lot of ability." He doesn't say, _he reminds me of myself sometimes_. He doesn't want to reveal that much yet, not to Graves. Particularly not when that thought makes him so goddamn uncomfortable.

"Well, I'll let you know," Graves shifts, his expression blanking out, and Jake knows from years of working with Graves that he's mentally moved on to his next obligation and Jake's being dismissed. 

Jake breathes out in relief, then puts his hands on the arms of the chair, pushes himself to standing. "Thank you, sir."

As he turns to go, Graves says, "And Jake--" 

Jake looks back over his shoulder. "Yeah?"

Graves watches him, his face shuttered. "I know he's your brother, but if he turns up, I want you to bring him in," he says after a moment, and he doesn't look away from Jake. "For his own fucking good, if nothing else."

Jake nods, pushing down the anger that swells up in him, then walks out, knowing damned well he'll do no such thing. He slams the door shut behind him, making Angelica jump in her chair. 

"All right there, Durant?" Angelica says as he passes her desk. 

"Could be better." Jake doesn't bother to stop, doesn't bother to look her way. He has to get away, has to put some distance between him and Tom Graves before he casts a hex that might end his fucking career.

Christ, he needs time to think.

And definitely a goddamn vacation.

***

"You're certain about this?" Harry asks Draco as they stop outside of the waiting room. "You don't have to talk to him, you know." Harry's face is worried and unhappy, and Draco wishes he could brush his knuckles against Harry's cheek, tell him he'll be fine, tell him how proud Draco is of him, how grateful he is for what Harry had said down the hall in the middle of Courtroom Four.

But Draco can't, not here in the middle of the warren of Wizengamot courtrooms, not with Gawain Robards and Hassan Shah waiting for Harry at the end of the hallway. So instead, Draco gives Harry a smile, and he knows it's not his strongest, knows it has to be wan and uncertain, judging from the way Harry's brow furrows more. 

"I need to," Draco says, and he knows it's true, as much as he knows he doesn't want to go into that room, doesn't want to sit across the table from his father. He wishes Harry could go in with him, could hold his hand as he faces down his father again. But Harry can't, and Draco wouldn't ask it of him.

Harry just studies him, then he sighs and looks away. "They'll only give you fifteen minutes," he says. 

That's more than Draco wants, really, but he nods. He knows he's being granted a favour, partially because he's an Auror--or was, before Saul fucking Croaker poached him, and partially because Harry asked for it on Draco's behalf. 

"Stop fretting," Draco says as Phoebe Rayne opens the door for him, her red hair wrapped in a braid around her head, her black Unspeakable robes pristinely pressed for court.

"You know I can't help it," Harry says quietly, and his fingers brush the back of Draco's hand unobtrusively. 

Draco shivers at the touch, but Rayne's just looking between the two of them, and Draco's afraid she sees more than he'd like. She's an Unspeakable, after all. "Go have your tête-à-tête with Robards," he says to Harry, his gaze drifting back down the hall to where the Head Auror has his head bent to Shah's.

"I'll come find you before we're called back in," Harry says. "It won't take long." And it won't, Draco knows. His mother's waiting in the courtroom with Andromeda; he and Harry have dinner arranged with them later. Well. Lunch for him and Harry, he supposes, and it's odd how his body's shifted to New York time in just a week. Being back here in London feels odd. As if Draco doesn't quite fit any longer, and that's madness, he knows. For Circe's sake, he's spent a fortnight in Belize before, and he'd not come home feeling like this. It's the Mark, he thinks. Or this shift in his relationship with Harry. Something's making him feel unsettled, as if he wants to crawl out of his skin.

"Sergeant?" Rayne's waiting in the doorway, and Draco steps away from Harry. He feels his absence immediately, and that's ridiculous of him, he knows. He's being melodramatic. Idiotic. Still, his gaze goes back to Harry as he steps through the door, and Harry gives him a tight, quick smile before the door swings shut. 

His father's sitting on the sofa with Achilleus Avery beside him, their heads bent together. They both look up at him; Avery stands and holds out a hand. "Sergeant Malfoy." 

Draco shakes it, feeling distinctly uncomfortable with his father watching him. Lucius looks like hell, even moreso here than he had in the courtroom. He's too thin, Draco thinks, and he wonders if his father's eating properly. They're still giving him potions for his tremors, and despite the gauntness of his father's hands and shoulders, his face is puffy and a bit swollen. 

Still, his hair's clean and his robe isn't wrinkled. Not that much, at least.

"I'll leave you two alone for a moment, shall I?" Avery says. Draco wants to catch his arm, to tell him to stay, but he doesn't. "We're doing well, I think. I've the utmost confidence in our request being granted--" Avery breaks off, looking at Draco's face. "Yes. Well, I'm certain you'd rather speak with your father." 

"Thank you," Draco says, and he does mean it. Avery's a damned good barrister, that much is certain. "For everything."

Avery gives him a small smile. "Just doing my job, Sergeant." He walks over to the door, raps on it, and Rayne swings it open again, her round, freckled face peering in at them. "My client would like a moment of privacy with his son."

The room's silent when Avery steps out. Draco hesitates, his hands in his pockets. His father's not looking at him, hasn't even really acknowledged his presence. 

"Hello, Father," Draco says after a long moment. 

Lucius's gaze flicks towards Draco, then at the closed door. "They'll be listening."

"Probably." It's not just his father's paranoia creeping up. The Unspeakables are always listening, in Draco's experience. Draco takes the wide armchair across from the sofa. He wonders how many other prisoners have sat here, waiting for a verdict to be brought back against them. He studies his father. Lucius looks tired. Worried. Draco supposes that having one's associates murdered in cold blood will do that. Particularly when you're the sole survivor. "How are you?"

"Well enough." Lucius smoothes his grey prisoner's robe over his knee. Draco wonders what it must feel like to his father at the moment for his son to be sat across from him in full Auror dress, even down to the polished boots. His father looks up at him. "You seem to have landed on your feet, haven't you?"

Draco raises an eyebrow. "Sorry?"

His father's smile is thin and bitter. "Harry Potter. I saw the glances in the courtroom between the two of you. I'm not a fool, Draco." He lowers his voice. "If you must be bent, at least you've made a powerful connection."

And Draco's no goddamned intention of discussing Harry with his father. Ever. "That subject's off limits," he says, a sharpness to his voice that makes even him flinch at what it reveals. 

Lucius just sits back. "I see."

He probably does, Draco thinks, and that infuriates Draco more than he'll admit. "How's your Mark?" Draco asks with a pointed viciousness, and that makes his father's face pale, the snide smirk on his face slip away, his hand settles lightly against his forearm. "I suppose you're thrilled."

"Unsettled," Lucius says after a moment, and his gaze meets Draco's. It's full of fear, not delight, and Draco realises that for all his father's bluster, the War left its mark on him as well. "It's not something I thought would go off again."

"No," Draco says, and they fall silent. 

The room feels small and close now, its windowless walls painted a dull, light grey; the sofa and two armchairs feel as if they've been in the room for a good half-century or so. The cushions are flat and thin. Draco can feel the springs of the armchair beneath his arse. His father's hands are clasped loosely in his lap; they're raw and chapped, hangnails forming along his cuticles. Draco remembers his father's hands as been strong. Well cared for. Soft when they'd cupped Draco's small face as a child, Lucius beaming down at him. He'd been so cherished as a child, Draco knows. The son. The heir. The future.

Not the giant disappointment he is now.

Draco looks away. His father sighs and stands. He walks over to the corner of the room, then turns back towards Draco.

"I'm concerned," Lucius says finally, his voice low. "Your mother…" He rubs his hands over his face. "I don't want her staying in the Manor by herself."

"I've got her in my flat right now," Draco says, picking at a thread on the armchair. "And Aunt Andromeda is looking after her too."

Lucius nods. "She'll be fine then whilst I'm gone." His father doesn't sound convinced, though. To be honest, neither is Draco. His mother's never needed to stand on her own two feet, not like this. She's strong, and has a bloody backbone of steel, but it's different to break free on your own like this. Draco knows. Still, it surprises him that his father's speaking of being gone.

"You sound as if you think you're going away," Draco says, and he meets his father's gaze. 

"I am." Lucius sits on the edge of the sofa. He crosses his arms, and for the briefest of moments, he looks like the father Draco had known as a child. Proud. Determined. Strong. "I've been in this position before," his father says, voice calm. "I know when I'm going to be made an example of."

"It's not making an example of you," Draco says pointedly, "if you're actually guilty of the charges."

The look his father gives him is somewhat amused. "Should you need anything legally from the Malfoy estate, your mother knows how to contact Archie Burke. He may be a shit who wasn't willing to take me on here, but his firm still has control over the trust." His father's mouth twists into an ugly snarl. "What's left of it, at least. As for the Manor, she or you can maintain the wards, of course, and the elves will help with the day-to-day."

"We'll be fine," Draco watches his father's face. He can't say, _we've been managing for years without you, after all_ The grief is too raw, and he's sure he has only a few moments left before Rayne knocks on the door. It's not something he wants to get into with his father. Not right now. "You'll see."

"I'm certain I will." Something crosses Lucius's face, something sharp and almost sad. "But do try not to bugger it all up whilst I'm fighting my way out of ICW custody."

Draco leans back in his chair. "I hope that's a metaphor." He doesn't know what to say to his father any more. The distance between them feels too great, too deep to be bridged now. He misses the father he'd known as a boy, the father he'd thought had hung the moon, the father he thought was brilliant and powerful and wise, the father he'd idolised, that he'd wanted to become, the father he'd threatened everyone with in school because no one could stand against Lucius Malfoy. No one. 

Except the Dark Lord. 

The Death Eaters.

The Order. 

Everyone. 

And now, Draco's a grown man himself, and he sees how weak his father is, how weak he's always been. It makes Draco ill. Makes him wonder how foolish he'd been himself, how misguided. 

But he knows that's not the whole of the story. Lucius Malfoy has always been a bit broken. Lucius had fought his own father. Draco knows that. He can even remember some of the fights, back when he was small, hiding out in his father's study whilst Lucius and Abraxas Malfoy raged at one another. He wonders if that's just a mark of fathers and sons, of breaking free from the expectations placed on you by your parents, and perhaps he and his father aren't so very different after all. 

Lucius is watching him. "You're worried," he says.

"In a way." Draco flicks a piece of lint off his sleeve. He feels uneasy. Almost undone. "You're my father."

They're silent for a moment, then Draco says. "My Mark came back."

His father knows what he's done to his arm. They've only spoken of it once, when Draco had pulled his sleeve up in the middle of an argument and thrust it beneath his father's face, demanding that he see what he'd made Draco do to himself. It'd been an unfair accusation, Draco thinks. His father had never made him rip his skin up. But his father had pushed him to take the Mark, to claim his rightful space within the Dark Lord's inner circle. 

That, Draco thinks, had gone so spectacularly well, now hadn't it? 

"How badly?" his father asks, and Draco just shrugs. 

"It bled." He doesn't add that it'd taken two days for it to stop. Draco doubts his father will care about those details. 

Lucius sighs and looks away. "I'm not surprised. It would have to push its way back through the scar tissue."

Draco's surprised that Lucius even mentions it. "Dolohov Marked someone else," he says after a moment, and his father nods, seemingly unsurprised. "I didn't know anyone could still do that."

"It's not a spell the Dark Lord invented," Lucius says, looking annoyed. "He may have tweaked it, perfected it, but it was known charm--"

"Merlin," Draco can't help but say. "Don't tell me it was a sodding pureblood custom."

Lucius's mouth curves up at the corner. "No. But it was a Dark spell. Based on a Protean Charm. I'm not shocked that Antonin would put it to use again." His father looks troubled. "I had hoped we wouldn't…" He trails off, then sighs again. 

Draco just looks at him, feeling the rush of fear rolling off of Lucius. "You're scared," he says, and the realisation makes him lean back in his chair. "You don't want him coming back either."

His father is silent anything for a long moment, then he shakes his head. "The Dark Lord destroyed us," he says finally. "Destroyed me. I wanted our power back, Draco. I wanted to be strong. To have the status we once had. But I've never wanted him to return. That was Antonin's dream, not mine."

For once, Draco believes his father. "But you helped him anyway."

Lucius can't look at him. "I wanted power," he says again, and he sounds so bloody pathetic that Draco's stomach twists. "Nothing else."

"Merlin," Draco says, his voice quiet. "You're deplorable, aren't you, Father?"

His father just looks away.

***

Harry casts a worried glance back at the waiting room door as he walks down the hall, his hands shoved in the pockets of his uniform trousers. He knows Draco's feeling fragile about his father. He's not certain why or how he knows. Maybe it's the remnants of Draco's Legilimency leaking into Harry's mind. Maybe it's just that Harry feels as if he's closer to Draco than he has been to anyone in his life--and that's an unsettling thought in a way. If he'd told his Hogwarts self that he'd trust Draco Malfoy more than Ron and Hermione even, he'd have thought he'd gone right round the twist when he'd grown up.

Gawain looks up when Harry walks over. His gaze flicks back down the hall. "How is he?"

"All right," Harry says. He glances over to Shah and nods. "Hi, Hassan. How's Azkaban going?"

Shah frowns. "I'm in a bit of a mither with it, yeah?" He shakes his head, and Harry thinks Shah looks like he's aged half a decade in the past week and a half. He looks exhausted; Harry reckons he's not sleeping much, and that makes Harry feel a bit guilty, doesn't it? "I've got your Zabini's granddad with the Dementors, and he's a sound one, yeah? But some of those beasties are a bit…" He hesitates, then says, "Difficult."

"Barachiel Dee's struggling to control a handful of them," Gawain says, and he doesn't look happy. "So far he's managed, but I suspect he'll be wanting help from Mr Durant before too long."

Brilliant. Harry doesn't know if it'd be worse or better to have Jake out of the way, off in Azkaban, whilst they're back in the States trying to track down Dolohov. Not that they've had any sodding luck with it so far, but that's policing for you. Two steps forward, one step back, and that's on the best of days. Fuck if they've had any of those lately. "Is Luxembourg helping?"

"As best they can," Shah says, and the deep furrows in his face remind Harry that Shah's still just a sergeant. He's had a hell of a lot of responsibility thrust on him in a short amount of time. "Lotte's been brilliant, making sure we have what we need from their end, as far as staffing goes. It's still bloody hard, replacing two hundred and twenty-three Dementors with human guards. Just making the shift schedule and arranging everyone to get from their gaff to the rock ontime?" He shakes his head. "Fucking bobbins, I tell you, and fuck only knows what'll happen if this goddamned Death Eater registry actually goes through." He looks at Gawain. "We're already shorthanded as it is, and that'll put another round of our folk covering that...Merlin."

Gawain folds his arms over his chest and scowls.. "Let's hope intelligent heads prevail." 

"When are Marchbanks and Hawkworth bringing it before the full Wizengamot?" Harry asks. "I've been told I can speak against it--"

"I'm not sure even that will help," Gawain says, and he sounds so damned exhausted. "Particularly not after the latest incident in the States." He looks over at Harry. "Kingsley's trying to hold the vote off as long as possible. Maybe even until the Luxembourg delegation's gone." And Harry can tell by his tone that Gawain's not best pleased with that lot at the moment. "Fucking bastards." He scowls at Harry. "Not that you helped shut them up, Potter. What was that? Suggesting we're to blame for Peasegood's actions?" His mouth tightens. "That's bollocks and you damned well know it."

And that explains Gawain's irritation with Harry during his testimony. Harry shrugs, and he doesn't give a fuck, really. "Are you forgetting Wrightson and Bates? What they had to do with the cock-up we're having to deal with in Azkaban?" He lifts his chin, meets Gawain's gaze evenly. "Because I'm fairly certain we're not blameless in any of this, and if you're suggesting we put our reputations above the life--"

"Of Lucius Malfoy?" Gawain just looks at him. "Whilst I realise that Mr Malfoy is connected to your team, Harry, I've no intention of giving him any special treatment--"

Harry feels his anger twisting inside of him. "You think a safe holding cell, one where he might be protected from an attack--"

"From whom?" Gawain's voice rises. "You really think our Aurors, our Hit Wizards, our Unspeakables are that corrupted, Harry? Do you want me to walk back into headquarters and tell the men and women who've put their lives at risk for years that you don't trust them? Because of what? Your bloodyminded need to protect Lucius Malfoy?" Gawain snorts, and Harry can feel Shah's discomfort beside him. "Don't be a fool."

"Lucius Malfoy's life is not expendable," Harry says, his voice sharp and furious. "Whatever you might think." The cuff of Shah's robe begins to smoke.

"Harry, mate," Shah says as he beats out the small blue-orange tongue of flame that bursts across the hem. "Take it down a bit, yeah?"

Harry tries to breathe out, tries to push back the swell of fury rising in him. The look Gawain gives him is cool, appraising. 

"Sergeant Shah," Gawain says after a brief moment, "bugger off will you, and give me a moment with Inspector Potter." He glances over at Shah. "We'll finish our discussion tomorrow morning in my office, whatever the outcome of this hearing might be. If you're free, that is."

Shah shifts, only a tiny curl of smoke lingering over his right arm. "I've nowt in me diary, sir." His gaze drifts over to Harry, then back to Gawain. "I'll come by at half-nine, if that works for you?"

"I'll make the time," Gawain says, and Shah nods. 

"Right then." Shah claps Harry on the shoulder. "See you around, Potter. If you ever come back from New York, yeah?" He gives Harry a quick, easy smile, and then he's gone, disappearing down the hall and back into Courtroom Four. 

The corridor's silent as Gawain turns back to Harry. He doesn't look happy. "You're walking a thin line, Harry," he says after a moment. "Whilst I recognise you may have personal reasons for throwing your support behind Lucius Malfoy--"

And that's the limit of Harry's patience. "You mean, it's shocking to you that I'd rather not have my boyfriend's father harmed whilst in our custody?"

Gawain doesn't say anything. He just looks at Harry, and his shoulders slump a little. "I see," he says after a long, terrible moment when Harry can't believe what he's just bloody said to his boss. Draco's boss. The fucking Head Auror of the British Auror Force. 

Harry clenches his fists, trying to stop them from obviously shaking. 

"Walk with me," Gawain says, and Harry finds himself falling into step with him, even though he'd rather do anything but. Gawain's steps are measured and precise, and his displeasure is evident in the way they echo through the empty corridor. 

"Are you telling me," Gawain asks finally, "that you are continuing to be involved in a sexual relationship with Sergeant Malfoy?"

Harry stops, and Gawain turns to look back at him. Harry meets his gaze. "Yes."

"You recognise the difficulty you're placing me in--"

"Draco's not under my command any longer," Harry says, his voice low and vicious, and he doesn't give a bloody fuck any longer. He and Gawain are going to have it out about this. "You made goddamned certain of that."

Gawain scowls, and his greying hair falls across his forehead as he tips his head towards Harry. "Saul Croaker put that request in, Inspector. It was approved by Kingsley himself; I had no bloody choice in the matter."

Harry doesn't believe him. "You could have fought to keep him--"

"And for what?" Gawain's voice is harsh. "He's too bloody skilled for the Auror force, Harry. He's wasted under your command, and you and I both know that."

It feels like a slap across Harry's face. He takes a step back, and Gawain's face softens. 

"Harry. I didn't mean--"

"I think you did." Harry folds his arms across his chest, twists his fingers in the thin wool of his summer uniform. "You think I'm a shit SIO."

Gawain scowls at him. "I think you're a green SIO." He shoves his hands in his pockets and looks at Harry, then sighs. "Merlin, you remind me of myself as a young Inspector. Rash, stupid, making the worst bloody mistakes I could for my career."

"You seem to have done all right," Harry says, his voice cool. 

"After a hell of a lot of penance." Gawain leans against the wall, and he doesn't seem so much the Head Auror at the moment as a tired and aging man who's studying Harry with kind exasperation. "I'd rather you learn from my mistakes, Harry."

Harry doesn't answer. 

"Persephone Abbott was my Malfoy," Gawain says quietly. "I was mad about her. I came close to throwing everything away for that woman, and it was glorious." He closes his eyes for a moment, and a small smile curves his mouth. "We were on the same team for five years, sleeping together for three-and-a-half, and those were the best years of my life." He looks at Harry here and sighs. "And when it all went to hell--and it always goes to hell, I'm afraid, lad---well. We imploded our entire team. Drove a wedge between our closest friends. Our SIO was reprimanded for turning a blind eye; he left the Aurors two years later." 

"We're not like that." Harry knows he and Malfoy are different; they always have been. Gawain's just too bloody caught up in his own past to realise it. "Our team's not going to fall apart."

"Maybe it has already," Gawain says, his voice gentle. He shakes his head, rocks forward on his feet. "Perhaps it was foolish of me to put all of you together."

Harry looks away, digs his fingers into his elbows. "Well, it's not an issue. I'm not his SIO, and we're dating now, and if you bloody well think I'm going to walk away from him, you're off your fucking nut." His mouth tightens; he glares at Gawain. "And if you threaten his career again the way you did, I swear to God, Gawain, I'll make your life a living hell, and you know I will." He lifts his chin. "Don't you fucking _touch_ him. Am I clear?"

Gawain's face shutters. "Perfectly." His voice is cold. "Although I believe you think you've more power in this Ministry than you do, Harry."

"Are you willing to test that?" Harry frowns at Gawain. He's probably right, but Harry's learnt that the only way to actually throw his weight around in the Ministry is to act as if he could if he wanted to. It's the threat that works. Not the action. 

And when Gawain looks away, Harry knows he's won. "You're a damned fool, Harry Potter," Gawain says. 

"Probably." Harry doesn't care. Not right now. Not when Draco's sat with his father in a waiting room, and a Wizengamot panel's deliberating a corridor or two away. All he wants is to wrap himself around Draco, to pull him close, to let him know that Harry will always stand beside him. No matter what. 

Harry doesn't expect Gawain to understand any of that. 

Down the hall, the door to Courtroom Four opens, and one of the guards steps out. "They're on their way back," he says to Gawain, and the Head Auror nods. 

"Help Rayne bring Malfoy in," Gawain says, and the guard hurries down the hallway. Gawain glances back at Harry. "I suppose we'll see what weight Ogden gave your testimony."

"I said what I had to." Harry just looks at Gawain. 

Gawain huffs and scowls, but Harry knows most of it's bluster. "You're an idiot." But Gawain's hand rests on Harry's shoulder, squeezing it lightly, before he moves past Harry, looking back at him. "You might as well come on."

Harry glances back down the corridor. Rayne's stepping out of another room, Avery at her heels. He wants to wait for Draco, but he thinks it might be too obvious if they walk in together, so he follows Gawain back into the courtroom. 

The gallery's filling back up again, and Harry sits beside Gawain, craning his head to watch the door for Draco's entrance. He comes in behind his father and Rayne, Avery and the guard beside him, and Draco looks unhappy. Wan. Harry's gaze shifts to Lucius, his eyes narrowing, but Draco's father doesn't look triumphant. Instead, his hands bound before him again, he seems a bit nervous. Uneasy. And when Avery bends his head to say something to Lucius, Lucius nods, then glances back to Draco. Almost as if he's drawing courage of some sort from his son. 

Harry doesn't really like that thought. 

The entire courtroom stands as the judges enter, Gambol trailing the sweep of their robes. She looks viciously unhappy, and Harry glances over at Avery. Lucius's counsel seems grimly pleased, and Harry almost has a modicum of hope as Ogden takes his seat, Penrose and Grimblehawk on either side of him. Gambol sinks into the chair at the end of the table, and the scowl she turns on Lucius is burning with vitriol. 

"Counsel will step forward, along with the defendant," Ogden says, folding his hands over the stack of file jackets in front of him. Avery nudges Lucius, and, together with Bulstrode, they move around the edge of the defence desk, the three of them standing before the panel of judges. Ogden's silent for a moment, studying Lucius's face. He sighs. "Mr Malfoy. This panel has heard the request made by your counsel. After some spirited deliberation--" His gaze slides over to Gambol-- "we have decided, perhaps against our best judgment, to agree to the request made to transfer you to the care of the International Wizarding Courts of Justice in Brussels. You will be remanded there until a date is set for your trial, which will be conducted by the ICW in accordance with British law." 

A murmur goes through the gallery, along with a scrum of movement in the press pit. Harry can see the tenseness in Lucius' shoulders seep out, and Draco's father closes his eyes, draws in a slow breath. Harry glances towards the back of the gallery, towards a silver-gilt fall of hair against the dark panelled wood, and Draco turns his head, meeting Harry's gaze. 

_Thank you._ The words echo in Harry's head, soft and quiet and filled with a deep emotion. It's almost as if Draco's beside him, laying his head against Harry's shoulder. 

Harry just nods, and Draco gives him a small smile. 

It lights up the bloody room for Harry.

***

Althea looks up from her stack of file jackets the fourth time Zabini huffs a long sigh and shifts in his chair. It creaks beneath him, and Zabini stretches then swivels, and Althea swears to Circe she's going to stab him with a quill if he doesn't fucking sit still.

They're the only two in the incident room, what with the guv and Malfoy gone back to London for the rest of the day. Parkinson's tucked away in her lab, and Althea's fairly certain Graves has pulled her onto the forensics for the Eddie Durant escape, just from the gossip she's heard walking through the hallways. And there's been a flurry of it in the past few hours, hushed whispers that still when she walks past because they know she's working with Jake Durant, the sideways glances that come her way. It's a bit off-putting, Althea thinks, and she wonders if that's only a fraction of how Malfoy feels walking through Auror headquarters. She feels a rush of guilt at that thought. Althea knows she doesn't deserve Malfoy's forgiveness for that; to be honest, she wouldn't have been surprised if he'd brought her up in front of Professional Standards at some point, but she's glad that he hasn't. At least not yet, she supposes. 

Zabini shifts again, and Althea's fairly certain he hasn't turned a page in his file jacket for the past half hour at least. He's worried about Durant, she thinks. Zabini'd been here when the news about Eddie Durant had come in, and he'd gone straight to Bonavista, leaving a note for Althea for when she'd come back to the loo. She'd followed him, found him sitting beside Durant in the hospital corridor, both of them silent, Zabini's hand resting lightly on Durant's back. 

Althea had left them there, walking down the hall to the scrum of Aurors outside Eddie's hospital room. Graves had been there, shouting orders, and when he'd seen her, he'd thrown her back out again, telling her in no bloody uncertain terms that no one from Jake Durant's team was welcome in the room. Not yet at least. 

She hadn't even bothered to protest that she was with Potter's team. Graves had been far too bloody angry--not at her, So she'd hung out in the corridor, one eye on Zabini and Durant, the other on the flurry of activity in the room until the magiforensicologists packed up, and Graves had called her back in, gave her the details on Eddie's disappearance. 

What little they had for now, at least.

And now Zabini was back in the incident room driving her bloody mad. 

"Oi," Althea says sharply, and Zabini looks up. "Are you actually reading that file?"

Zabini gives her an offended look. "Yes."

Althea lays her quill down. "Then tell me what that page says." She tuts as Zabini glances down at it. "Without looking."

"Fuck off," Zabini says, but he gives her a faint smile. "So I'm distracted."

"I rather think this goes beyond distracted," Althea says. She studies him for a moment then sighs and pushes her chair back, standing up. "Come on."

Zabini just looks up at her. "What--"

"Get the hell out of your chair," Althea says. The sleeves of her cream shirt are rolled up to her elbows, and she brushes a bit of scraped-off quill nib from her dark brown trousers. "We're going to Brighton Beach. I want to talk to that Fyodor Popov again." She grabs her satchel and pulls it over her head, settling the bag against her hip.

"Are you mad?" Zabini frowns, and Althea thinks she might just be. "That's not in our purview right now--"

"When have you ever given a damn about that?" Althea stops by his desk, holds her hand out. "Look, Zabini, you're worthless here right now because you're worried about Durant. The guv's gone, it's just us, and it's…" She turns, glances at the clock on the wall. "Not even gone half-two yet. If you think I'm going to sit here for another three hours and watch you sigh and mope, you're a bloody idiot. So let's _do_ something. Aren't the Promotions Board always mouthing off about us taking initiative?"

Zabini's just watching her as if she's some sort of mental case, escaped from Mungo's locked ward. "I'm fairly certain the Americans won't like that."

"Since when have you ever cared what the Americans like?" Althea raises an eyebrow. 

"Point." Zabini takes her still-outstretched hand, lets her pull him up. "We don't even know how to find Popov. Or get down to Brighton Beach."

Althea's already half-out the door. He catches up with her, and she glances over at him. "Are you a wizard or not? There's a bloody public Apparition point down the street from Coney Island. That's half a mile at most from the location Malfoy and Martine originally found Popov."

Zabini follows her down the hallway, nodding at the American Aurors they pass, clapping others of them on the back. Althea's impressed at how easy Zabini is around them, at how well they respond to him. "Graves'll have kittens if he finds out."

"Fuck him," Althea says, and she presses the button for the lift, turning to look back at Zabini. "Do you care?"

"No."

Althea shrugs. "Then?"

Zabini eyes her. "Are you certain you're a Ravenclaw?" he asks. "Because right now I'd swear you had a Gryffindor streak in you--"

"My mum was Slytherin," Althea admits, and she gives him a sideways glance. "To be honest, I've never found Gryffindors and Slytherins to be that terribly different. Neither of you gives a fuck about playing by the rules. It's just how you approach the rulebreaking that's different."

It takes Zabini a moment before he says, "I suppose I can't really argue with that." The doors to the lift ding open. "Although it's bloody shit of you to be banging on about how awful Slytherins are when your mum was one." They step into the lifts; Althea pushes the button for the ground floor.

"Probably." Althea wonders what Zabini would think if she told him her mum was a Yaxley. She thinks she'll keep that to herself a bit longer. There's only so open Althea wants to be with her team. 

And they are hers, she realises with a small stab of surprise. It's just been two weeks since she first walked into the incident room in London, terrified out of her bloody mind, a chip on her shoulder the size of the Gherkin, but she's as much a part of Seven-Four-Alpha as she's been in any other team she was assigned to. She's sure they don't feel the same about her, but she doesn't care. 

Zabini just watches her for a moment, and Althea thinks he might say something, but he doesn't. 

The lift opens, and they step out. The Apparition point for MACUSA's outside, around the side of the Woolworth Building and behind a skip that no one ever seems to empty. It reeks of piss and garbage, particularly in the heat of the afternoon, and Althea can smell the oily, heavy scent of the hot tar from the road mixing in. It's almost too much; she can taste it in the back of her throat, and she coughs, stumbling on a cracked bit of pavement. Zabini catches her. 

"All right?" he asks, and she nods. 

They stop on the Apparition point, letting the secrecy wards settle around them. "This is a truly stupid idea, you realise," Zabini says, and Althea smiles. 

"You still want to go."

Zabini tries to frown, but it doesn't quite reach his eyes. "If we're called up on it, I'm blaming you."

"Fair enough." Althea holds out her elbow. "Side-Along?"

"I'm so going to bloody regret this," Blaise murmurs, but he slides his arm through hers. "Whatever, woman. Lead on."

Althea hopes she can remember the coordinates. She closes her eyes, visualises it in her mind, settles the location, and then thinks about the spell, letting the magic weave its way around her, over Zabini. 

They land behind another skip. At least this one doesn't smell of piss, Althea thinks. Still, it's foul, and she has to breathe through her mouth as they step around it, past the entrance to the subway station on Brighton Beach Avenue. The train rumbles above them, wheels clacking along the elevated track, casting its shadow along the thickly trafficked street, and the scent of food drifts out from the cafes along the pavement, the yeasty sweetness of breads and the spicy, charred richness of tomatoes and grilled meat.

Althea has no bloody idea where to start. "They found him on the corner of Fifth and Brighton Beach last time," she says, and Zabini nods. 

"Might as well start there." Zabini starts off down the pavement, and Althea catches up to him. She wonders how things are going for the guv and Malfoy in London. The hearing must be over by now. It's odd to think of them back in England; she wishes she'd thought to have Malfoy bring something for her father. Maxie could have taken it to him. They'd spent most of yesterday together watching the cricket, her father'd told her when she rang him last night to check in. Merlin, but Althea's grateful for Maxie. She doesn't know what she'd do without him. 

Zabini's silent as they walk, his hands shoved in his pockets. Althea glances over at him, taking in his stiff shoulders and his scowl. 

"You're worried about Durant," she says. She doesn't bother with a question. A statement's just as good for the moment. 

Zabini's frown deepens. "No."

"Liar," Althea says, and he turns his head, the look he gives her scathing at best. It doesn't bother Althea. She grew up with Clio Yaxley Whitaker, after all. Her mother was brilliant and wonderful, but she'd no patience for foolishness. "You fancy him."

That's another sharp look, and Althea smiles. 

"You might as well admit it," she says. "It's bloody obvious. Almost as obvious as the guv and Malfoy." 

Zabini sidesteps an open cellar in the pavement in front of a corner bodega. A man's half on the steps, his torso exposed. He looks up at them with a bright smile and wipes his sweaty face with the hem of his t-shirt before turning back to the boxes on the steps that he's carrying back up to the shop. Zabini sighs. "I don't need to admit anything," he says gruffly. At Althea's sceptical look, he flips two fingers her way. "It's none of your business anyway."

"Probably not." Althea can't really argue that. Still, she feels a bit sorry for Zabini. "But you seem a bit…" She hesitates. "How do I put it? Off your bloody game right now?"

That earns her a faint smile. "You're a blunt one, Althea Whitaker," Zabini says, and Althea shrugs. 

"My mother taught me to say my mind," she says as a lorry rumbles past them. They stop at the corner of Fourth Street and Brighton Beach Avenue, in front of a produce shop. The sweet scent of fresh fruit hangs on the air, a bright, lovely note above the acrid stench of oil and exhaust. "It gets me in trouble sometimes."

"Unsurprising." Zabini glances over at her. He looks tired, she thinks, and terribly sad, if still beautiful with the smooth angles and planes of his brown face hidden in the shadows cast by the elevated train. He runs a hand over his close-cropped hair, looks away. "You're too observant as well," he admits.

"It's what earned me my sergeant's bars," Althea says with a small quirk of her lips. They cross the street, strolling slowly down the pavement. Althea catches sight of a small cafe. She nudges Zabini's elbow. "Buy you a drink?"

He follows her gaze, then shrugs. "Why the hell not."

They go into the small shop. It's clean and neat, but not posh, at least not in Althea's opinion. It's all bright white tiles and a few small chrome-edged tables with cherry red tops and rickety chairs that look as if they've seen a repair charm or twenty in their long lives. 

"What can I do you for?" the man behind the counter says, and his accent is thick and guttural. He scratches at his stubbled chin. 

"Two coffees." Althea pulls out her wallet as Zabini sits at one of the tables. She frowns down at the Muggle money she's tucked in there, then pulls out a note that she thinks should cover it.

"Milk?" the man asks, then he catches sight of her dragonhide wallet, his eyes flicking up to her face. He frowns for a moment, then says carefully, "We also take Dragots." He meets her gaze, his thick, black eyebrows going up. 

Althea smiles. "Milk's good. Dragots, too." She digs out some of the coins and sets them on the counter. 

The man nods, takes them and drops them in the till, handing her back some smaller coins as change before turning back to the coffee pot behind him. He pours two cups, then turns back to her setting the thick white cups on a red tray with a small silver pitcher of milk. He pushes the tray towards her and nods, never smiling the entire time. 

"Ta," Althea says before she remembers she's in the States. "Thanks." She picks the tray up and carries it over to Zabini. "They're wizards," she says under her breath as she sits down, and Zabini raises an eyebrow. 

"Are they." He glances back over at the man. "They must know Popov."

"Probably." Althea pours a good splash of milk in her coffee and stirs it with a quick twist of her finger above the cup. She's always been good at small wandless spells, and she looks up to find Zabini watching her. "Do you want to go question him?"

Zabini glances over again at the man, then picks up his cup of coffee. He hasn't bothered with milk. "Not yet."

Althea sits back in her chair. "In that case…" She lifts her cup to her mouth and takes a sip. It's strong--nearly as strong as the MACUSA coffee--and there's a faint sweetness behind the bitter bite. "Durant?"

"Didn't I tell you to fuck off?" Zabini's smile is a bit wider now. He rests his elbows on the table. "Why are you so bloody interested in my--" He bites the words off there, a discomfort obviously settling over him. 

"Sex life?" Althea doesn't see the need to mince her words. "Or lack thereof? I don't know, Zabini. Maybe it has something to do with the fact that I couldn't get any bloody work done this afternoon." She takes another sip of coffee.

Zabini's silent for a moment, then he sighs. "Look, he's made it clear that he might think I'm interesting, but he's not going to act on it." His brow furrows. "Which would be fine, if it weren't for these goddamned Veela hormones--" He stops again, and his eyes narrow at Althea. "And you can fucking forget I said that."

Althea just snorts. "You think it's not obvious? No one's as fit as you without a little bit of Veela in their blood. How far back?"

"Four generations?" Zabini says after a moment. "Enough that it's bloody well diluted, but there's still….well."

"It's powerful," Althea admits. "Can you turn it on? Give someone the whammy?"

"The whammy?" Zabini eyes her. "Honestly, Althea."

Althea shrugs. "You know what I mean."

Zabini runs a finger around the rim of his coffee cup. "If I wanted to. I don't, really. I've never needed to, at least not in recent years, and my mother warned me about the ethical issues of that when I hit puberty."

"So I take it that's not something you want to do with Durant?" Althea watches as Zabini's nostrils flare.

"I'm not that sort," Zabini says, his voice rough with anger. "I'd never--"

"I didn't think you were." Althea leans forward. She looks out the window onto the street, watching the traffic creep past. She can faintly hear the blare of their horns as the drivers grow impatient. She turns back to Zabini. "So he's put you off then?"

Zabini's mouth twists to one side. "Told me it's unethical for him to think about it given that he's been in my head."

"That's bullshit," Althea says, and Zabini snorts in amusement. 

"I agree." He picks up his coffee and takes a sip, grimacing as he puts it back down. 

Althea rubs a thumb over a stain on the tabletop. "It sounds like he's just nervous." She looks up at him. "He did just break up with Potter."

"And that's part of it, isn't it?" Zabini shakes his head. "Jake's still hung up on him, and the guv? Well."

"He's lost in Malfoy," Althea says quietly, and Zabini nods. 

"That's the shit of it." Zabini props his chin on his hand, staring out at the street. "I fancy a man who fancies my guv who fancies my best friend." He laughs softly, a bit bitterly. "This is not an experience I've had frequently in my life." He picks up his coffee cup again, and takes a long sip. "Probably penance for all the times I shagged blokes Draco fancied whilst we were in school."

And Althea's surprised by that. "He never hexed you for that?"

Zabini's eyes crinkle at the corners. "He sulked mostly. Draco's far more bark than bite. You'll find that out soon enough."

Frankly, Althea's not certain she'll ever understand Slytherins. "Merlin." She shakes her head. "Look, if you want my two Knuts, not that they're worth anything, it seems you've two choices when it comes to Durant. Either you keep going after him or you back off. Give him some space to figure his own head out."

"I know." Zabini doesn't look happy about that. "I'm trying."

"Then go out and shag someone else," Althea says, starting to get exasperated. "He can't be angry about that, not if he's told you he's not interested in shagging you. I mean, even if he was, you're not bloody exclusive or anything. Go out and shag someone. Get this--" She waves a hand up and down him-- "out of your system, man. You're moping around about a bloke who's telling you thanks but no, yeah?"

Zabini gives her a scathing look. "You make me sound pathetic."

"You _are_ pathetic, Zabini." Althea frowns at him. "And I barely know you, so why the fuck aren't your friends telling you this?"

He shrugs. "Draco's all up in the guv right now, and Pansy has Tony--" Zabini stops, looking at her. "You fancy her too, don't you?"

Althea can feel her face warm. "No."

"Fucking liar." Zabini laughs. "I know that look. And, listen. I love Pansy Parkinson more than you'll ever know. She's been my friend since first year, and I know her well. Adore her. Fucked her even for a year in school--"

Althea raises her eyebrow. "And how was that?"

Zabini just looks at her, amusement twitching his mouth. "Brilliant. But completely unpredictable. I think it's a reaction to Camilla." At Althea's curious look, he clarifies. "Her mum. Pansy's one of the best fucks I've ever had, but, Merlin, we're so much better as friends. So you ought to keep that in mind when you're thinking about what you want from her."

Something uncomfortable and unhappy twists inside of Althea. "Maybe you're right." She picks up her coffee cup again. "It's just a silly pash."

"Like mine." Zabini reaches across the table, touches Althea's hand. "Look at us. We're wretched the both of us."

"Utterly pathetic." Althea gives him a small smile. "We both need to be laid."

Zabini leans back in his chair. "At least you have Lucy."

That's true. Lucy's a brilliant shag, and she doesn't want anything else from Althea. Just a fantastic night of orgasms galore, and no strings. "I should ring her up again," Althea says. She eyes Zabini. "I'm fairly certain Alma would climb you if you asked."

"Espinoza?" Zabini laughs, then looks intrigued. "Maybe."

Althea rolls her eyes. "Maybe my arse. You should think about it."

Zabini's quiet for a moment, and then he says, "I might."

They don't say anything for a long moment. Althea sets her coffee cup down, then she looks out on the street, almost blankly, staring at the pedestrians sauntering past. And then she sees a face that she recognises from her file, the one she's been flipping through for the past two days. She nudges Zabini's foot beneath the table. 

"Fifteen feet to our left," she says, almost under her breath. "Does that look like Popov's picture to you?"

Zabini glances out the window, and Althea can tell the moment Zabini sees the young man setting up a card table down the pavement from them. He nods and looks back at her. "Think we should have a talk?"

Althea's already standing up. "Without a doubt."

They're out on the street in an instant, the man behind the counter shouting at them to leave their tray somewhere Althea can't make out. Popov looks up at them as Althea saunters his way, a wide smile creasing his face. 

"You want some magic, lady?" Popov asks. "I can read your cards--"

Althea pulls out her warrant card from her back pocket, and Popov's face shifts. "You can answer some questions for me, Fyodor."

"Shit," Popov says. "I already talked to you people. What more you want?"

"And we're still trying to find the Old Man," Zabini says. "So yeah, that'd be what we want."

Popov leans against the stone wall of the building behind him. He rustles in his pockets, pulls out a cigarette, and lights it. "I told your people what I know already." He takes a deep drag off the cigarette and, turning his head away from them, blows a thin stream of grey smoke out. 

"You really don't have a name for the Old Man?" Althea lets herself sound sceptical. "Someone your whole community knows? You can understand why we might think that's a bit mad, yeah?"

"Well, I don't." Popov chews on his bottom lip. "Look, I can get in trouble for talking to you guys." He looks around them. "Do me a solid, yeah? At least look as if you're letting me read your cards?"

Althea exchanges a glance with Zabini, who nods at her. She sighs and pulls out her wallet, taking a Dragot from it and dropping it on the table. 

"Oh, come on, man," Popov says. "Everyone knows I charge two."

"Bollocks," Althea mutters, but she drops another coin down on the table, then puts her wallet away. "So talk."

Popov picks up a stack of tarot cards from the table. "Shuffle."

Althea does, grimly, then hands them back to him, and Popov lays three of them out on the table.

"So, here's the thing," Popov says. "I got no name, yeah?" He looks up at them. "Seriously. No one calls him anything else. Maybe some of the older people know. He's been coming down here since the eighties, yeah? But I was a baby then, so I don't know. I've just heard him called the Old Man. That's all. Turn the first card.""

"Give us something else then." Zabini flips over one of the tarot cards. It's the Hermit. "You want to help us, Popov."

Popov sighs. "Right. Right." He takes another drag off his cigarette, then taps the ash off the end, letting it fall down to the filthy pavement, obviously considering. Popov leans his head back against the wall, his dark hair catching on the stone. "Jesus." He looks over at them, chewing his bottom lip. "Look, this didn't come from me, yeah?" He waits for both of them to nod, and then he points his cigarette at Althea. "Turn the next card."

Althea reaches over, flips the second card. The Lovers. She looks up at Popov. "Come on, Fyodor."

"Yeah." Popov rests one booted foot against the wall. He takes another drag off the cigarette, then wipes his thumb over the corner of his mouth. "My cousin Lenka. Brilliant girl. Best in M.P.S. 156, particularly in beginning charms. She applied to Ilvermorny and was accepted, but that place costs cash, yeah? Too much for my aunt and uncle, so she was just going to go to Paracelsus High over in Queens, like me." Popov shrugs. "Good school. I went there. My whole family went there. Taught me how to do this." He waves a hand towards the cards. 

"What does this have to do with Old Man?" Althea asks, getting impatient. Zabini gives her a longsuffering look.

"I'm getting there, yeah?" Popov frowns. "The Old Man paid for Lenka to go to Ilvermorny, so if you want to know who the hell he is, you might want to try their finance office. Somebody had to pay that bill, and that somebody has to know the Old Man's name."

Althea's astounded. "Fyodor, you're a fucking genius."

Popov gives her a slow grin. "And I didn't even have to go to Mt Greylock to prove it."

Zabini's already writing this down in his notepad. "Lenka's last name is Popov?"

"Popova," Popov says. "Feminine, yeah?"

"Got it." Zabini closes his notepad, and looks over at Althea. "Reckon we should talk to the guv when he gets back tomorrow morning. Make a little trip up to Massachusetts?"

Althea nods. She glances back at Popov. "Thanks," she says. "You've been great."

"Didn't come from me." Popov reaches down, as they start to walk away, and turns the last card over. "Hey," he says, raising his voice above the traffic, and Althea and Zabini both look back. He holds up the card. "Better be careful, yeah?"

A beam of sunlight filters through the elevated train tracks, bright across the face of Death. 

Althea can't suppress the shiver that goes through her; Zabini tenses up at her side.

"Fuck that," Zabini says under his breath, and he puts his hand beneath her elbow, drawing her away. "He's just a fucking hack."

Althea, however, isn't so certain.

***

"I thought that went rather well, don't you?" Andromeda asks. She draws a needle through the taut white fabric stretched across the hoop that levitates in front of her. It's half-filled with a delicate white-on-white embroidery, leaves and flowers and elegant curlicues sweeping around the sides. "I mean, all things considered, of course. But Brussels does seem to be a safer option than anything Britain can provide for Lucius at the moment." Andromeda pulls the white thread tight before pushing the needle through the fabric again.

The dinner dishes have been cleared from Andromeda's small dining room table, the washing-up charms done. Draco had helped Harry with those--laughing and slapping sudsy water at his boyfriend in the process--as his mother finished her glass of wine at the table and Andromeda made certain Teddy bathed and made it into his pyjamas with teeth brushed. Now they're all seated in the sitting room, Draco slouched in a wide, comfortable armchair and his mother primly seated to his right on a smaller upholstered side chair with intricately carved wooden arms, as lovely and delicate as she looks herself. Andromeda's perched on a chintz settee, her posture even more exact than Narcissa's, but her smile warm as she works on her embroidery. 

If he cranes his head, Draco can see Teddy and Harry playing with Teddy's Quodpot figures in the hall, and the look of gleeful abandon and delight on Harry's face as he sends the players swooping over Teddy's bright blue hair makes Draco's heart feel rather soft around the edges. Harry's surprisingly good with Teddy, more natural with him than Draco's ever been, judging from Teddy's delighted whoops each time he nearly catches one of the flying figures. Draco's pleasantly warm from wine at dinner-that-ought-to-have-been-lunch, and, with the sudden time zone shift, his body doesn't quite know where he is. London might as well be New York in the dark, although Draco is grateful that they're going back tomorrow. He doesn't really know how he's going to face a British homecoming for real, and he's dreadfully grateful he doesn't have to yet.

Narcissa looks thoughtfully at her hands, folded carefully over her lap. "Yes, well. I'm glad they've approved it. It will certainly be a relief. Although I don't know how we'll get anything to him in Belgium, if he needs it."

Draco's rather shocked that the Wizengamot justices had agreed to his father's transfer with a minimum of deliberation, although the prisoner affairs liaison, Gambol, had looked terribly put-out. Harry told Draco later that the transport would take his father out of England as soon as possible, and Lotte Marquardt from the ICW, along with Hassan Shah from the British side and Achilleus Avery, would go with it personally to guarantee their reception in Brussels.

"Really, Cissy, you're being so brave." Andromeda looks at her sister, her silver needle dipping back into the hooped fabric. "But don't worry. I'm sure we can find a way to visit in Brussels. Harry can help us get in, if nothing else."

Draco coughs at that point, a bit pointedly. "Yes, and I might as well. I believe Avery has connections there that could help us." He has a meeting arranged with his father's attorney mid-morning tomorrow to go over the remaining logistical details of Lucius's transfer to the Brussels facility, as well as how his trial will be conducted after that. It'll be faster now, Avery said; they'll be able to get on the docket within a few weeks. 

His mother and his aunt's eyes turn towards him. "Of course, dear," his mother says, politely, but she doesn't look convinced.

She's probably right, though. Harry's name does hold sway still, as opposed to the thick tarnish that mars the Malfoy surname. Draco could tell by the way that the Wizengamot judges and the ICW delegates listened to Harry's opinions that he retains influence as the Saviour of the Wizarding World, even if Harry himself is apparently oblivious to it. It irks Draco a bit, but he's beyond such things now. Or so he tells himself, hoping one day it'll be true. It's a bit gauche, Draco thinks, to resent one's boyfriend for being influential, particularly when that's one of the things that one finds so bloody, infuriatingly attractive about him. Also, they're dating now, really and truly, and Draco likes holding that shudderingly delicious secret to his chest, despite his father's horrid ability to guess at a connection between them based on a glance or two. Really, as if they're _that_ indiscreet, Draco thinks, with a frown and a roll of his eyes. Please. 

Truth be told, Draco's relieved, in a way, that his father's taken care of, and he feels more than a bit disloyal for being grateful to have Lucius out of England. With all the political fervor going on about the Death Eater registry, Draco's not sure it would help his own status as an Auror to have his father remain in prison here. He's also sure that an international court will be fairer to his father than a London court, what with all of the history of his father's activities in Britain.

"Tell me, Draco, how is New York?" His mother fixes him with one of her looks, and Draco braces himself for whatever criticism's coming. "I understand it's dreadfully hot right now. Are you using your sun charms?" She frowns at him. "I'm afraid I see a freckle or two. Your skin, darling. You haven't the complexion to--"

Draco's saved from this by his cousin Teddy crashing through the room at full speed in pursuit of one of the players, followed by an apologetic Harry.

"Sorry! I tried to keep us in the hall and kitchen, but, well." Harry gestures to Teddy who's climbing up onto a tufted ottoman to reach for the figure hovering out of his reach along the top shelf of one of the bookcases. He jumps a bit, but can't quite reach the player, who gives Teddy a big raspberry. Teddy flips two fingers at him, then glances around to make sure his grandmother isn't watching. Draco bites back a snort of amusement as Teddy freezes, realising that Draco caught him. Draco just winks at Teddy, and the grin Teddy gives him is wide and bright as he pulls his sagging pyjama bottoms back up over his thin hips and the elastic of his pants.

Andromeda doesn't catch Teddy, her head turned away as she smiles over at Harry, and Draco gets a sharp, sudden sense of how close she is to Harry, how his life is overlapping here in different ways that he couldn't have anticipated previously. "I'm sure we should be putting Teddy to bed," Andromeda says, eyeing the clock in the hall that's just struck ten. "It's well past his bedtime."

 _It's only five in New York,_ Draco thinks, and his eyes stray involuntarily to Harry, who's looking back at him. The warmth and promise in his eyes make Draco shiver. He uncrosses his legs.

Harry keeps his gaze on Draco as he says, "We should be leaving, letting you sleep."

"But I want a bedtime story." Teddy slides off the ottoman. "From Uncle Harry." He looks on the verge of throwing a strop.

Andromeda gives him an amused look. "You haven't had a bedtime story for two years, Edward." 

Teddy wrinkles his nose at his hated first name. "Don't call me that, Nan." He walks over and wraps his arms around Harry's waist. "I want one now." He looks up as Harry ruffles his hair, now turning a deep shade of teal. 

"As I recall, you told me on your sixth birthday that such things were not acceptable for a boy of your years," Andromeda says.

"I changed my mind." Teddy's bottom lip starts to stick out. "Don't make Uncle Harry go."

"Sorry, sprog," Harry says, letting his hand rest on Teddy's shoulder. He looks over at Andromeda. "Your nan's right. Time for bed for you. Besides, Draco and I need a nap too." His gaze slides to Draco, and a small smile quirks his lips. "Don't we?"

Draco smoothes a hand over his dress trousers. His jacket's hanging in the hall closet, next to Harry's. "Yes, well. I might be a bit tired."

"You can nap on my bed," Teddy says brightly. "And me and Uncle Harry could play Quodpot some more."

Harry laughs, a full, throaty chuckle that goes straight to Draco's prick. He doesn't glance away from Draco. "I think the point is that your nan wants _you_ in bed."

Teddy looks as if he's about to protest, but Andromeda clucks at him. "Bed, Teddy," she says firmly. "Say good night. I'll be up in a moment to tuck you in."

"Night," Teddy mumbles through a sullen scowl. He scuffs his feet towards the doorway. "'S not fair." He looks back, almost pitifully, when he gets to the hall. His hair has shifted to a dark green. "You'll come back to see me, Uncle Harry?"

"I promise." Harry waves at him. "We'll have a Quodpot rematch."

Teddy takes the steps slowly, his face peering down over the bannister into the sitting room until the very last minute, his tread heavy and despairing up the steps. A sigh echoes down the staircase, along with a quiet, mournful, "Good night."

Andromeda rolls her eyes. "That boy," she says, but her voice is filled with affection. "So very different from raising a girl." And then something deep and raw twists across her face, and she looks away from them, stabbing her needle into the fabric. Draco can feel the tendrils of grief that seep from his aunt's mind. And then his mother reaches over, takes one of Andromeda's hands and holds it tight. Andromeda gives her a watery smile, and the sadness in her eyes eases, for a moment at least.

Harry looks over at Draco, his hands in his pockets. 

_Home?_ Harry mouths, and Draco nods.

"You've been awfully kind to host us tonight, Aunt Andromeda. Thank you for taking care of Mother." Draco stands, intending to get their jackets from the hall.

To Draco's surprise, his mother stands up as well. "Yes, Dromeda. Thank you for a lovely meal, even if my company was a bit grim." They share a private smile, then Narcissa turns towards Draco. "I assume you'll be wanting to come to the flat with me?"

Draco rubs the back of his neck uneasily. Harry's giving him a look that's hard to read, and his aunt is waiting with a small, curious tilt to her head, a faint smile on her face, as if watching to see what he's going to choose. And then Draco takes a deep breath, ducks his chin.

"I'm sorry, Mother. I'll be going back to Grimmauld Place with Harry." He looks at his mother through the fall of his hair, suddenly nervous. "It'll be easier to catch the Portkey back together in the morning." He holds a hand out to Harry who steps closer, takes it, his fingers twining between Draco's, soft and warm and thick. 

Andromeda's smile grows wider. "How lovely," she says, and Draco thinks she means it.

Narcissa looks at Harry, then back to Draco. She sighs, catching her lip between her teeth. "I see. Well, perhaps I'll stay a bit longer, if Dromeda doesn't mind."

"You could sleep over again," Andromeda says. "The spare room's always yours, Cissy. You know that."

"I suppose." His mother doesn't look happy, and Draco feels a stab of guilt until Harry squeezes his hand. He looks over at Harry who just gives him a faint smile. 

"She'll be fine," Harry says under his breath. Draco knows he's right, but he can't help but feel he's being a bad son.

Still, Narcissa lets Draco hug her and place a soft kiss on her cheek. She's frowning, but Draco hopes she'll understand in time. There's no way he's not sharing a bed with his boyfriend tonight, no matter how much his mother had hoped for his attentions.

After hugging his aunt and watching Harry politely shake his mother's hand and then give Andromeda a big hug, Draco goes into the hall with Harry at his heels. His mother and his aunt follow them both. 

"Be careful in New York," Andromeda says from the sitting room doorway. "We need you both to return in one piece."

When Draco turns for a moment to glance back from the Floo, his mother's face is pale, watching him curiously. He tilts his head, silently asking for understanding. Their gazes meet, and Narcissa sighs, then gives him a small smile. 

"Come see me soon, darling," Narcissa says, but her eyes are worried. 

"I will." Draco blows her a kiss, then turns and follows Harry into the sparkling green flames.

Draco trips over the hearth as he steps through on the other end at Grimmauld, and nearly goes sprawling against Harry. Harry catches him, his arms outstretched, then pulls Draco up against him and holds him close for a moment. "Steady, there," Harry whispers against Draco's hair, and Draco lets himself relax against those strong arms of Harry's. He's needed this all day, and finally, despite his mother's last-minute attempts to separate them, they're home. He's missed Grimmauld Place, even if it's only been a week since he was here last. He loves the feel of the house, the smell of it, the crisp scent of lemon oil and beeswax that Kreacher uses in cleaning, the faint aroma of the lavender from the back garden wafting in.

Draco tucks his face against the crook of Harry's neck, his lips skimming Harry's collarbone. "This is nice."

He's interrupted from mouthing the salty curve of Harry's skin by a shuddering in the floorboards under his feet. Harry holds one arm out, wand already in his hand, the other keeping Draco close, and looks around. 

"What the fuck was that?" Draco asks. His heart's pounding in his chest, and a sudden shiver of fear runs through him that the Death Eaters have found them. Here, in Grimmauld Place, of all places, and that thought terrifies him.

Harry frowns. "Not sure. It felt like an earthquake. But that doesn't make sense, not in London."

A small figure in white nightcap made out of a wrapped linen napkin with a large scrap of tartan blanket draped across his bony shoulders toddles into the sitting room from the hallway. "Is Harry Potter being betrothed?" Kreacher's voice is shrill in the silence. His wide, watery eyes blink up at them both.

Draco raises an eyebrow and steps away from Harry. "No, Harry Potter is bloody well not." He looks over at Harry, who's frowning at the house elf as Harry tucks his wand away. "At least he better not be."

"As if I would." Harry gives Draco an exasperated look, then turns back to Kreacher. "Why the hell would you think that?"

Kreacher tilts his head, as he peers at them, and listens for a moment, his long ears bobbing softly. He nods in conclusion to something Draco cannot see. "The house is thinking that Harry Potter is being happy," he says bluntly, looking between Harry and Draco as if they're complete idiots. "Because of Master Draco."

Harry looks back over at Draco and his eyes are warm and bright. "I am, I suppose. But why would you think we're…" He coughs, runs one hand through his hair. "That?"

Kreacher scratches his bony arse softly in thought, his yellowed nails scraping at the blue striped pillowcase he's wearing as a tunic. His ears flop a bit with each graze of his fingers. "The house is welcoming Master Draco as its future mistress?" He sounds a bit hesitant, as if he's uncertain as to what the house is telling him.

Draco closes his eyes for a moment, mortified. "I'm not a girl," he says quietly. "So I can't be the mistress of the house." He's only been away from British wizarding society for a little over a week, but everything he touches feels antiquated, strange, as if it's trying to entrap him in a life he doesn't wish for. Or so he tells himself. Perhaps what's most troubling is the part of his heart that wants this, that wants to share Grimmauld Place with Harry.

Kreacher shrugs, as if human gender were only a matter of semantics, and perhaps, for a house elf, it is. "Is not mattering, Master Draco. You is being happy with Harry Potter, so the house is welcoming you." He glances at Harry, then back at Draco before he whispers, as if Harry can't hear him, "It is wanting the Black lineage to come back with you."

"Circe's fucking tits," Draco mutters. He looks over at Harry. "Your house is completely nutters, you realise."

Harry clears his throat awkwardly. "Should we make sure the house is all right?"

Kreacher turns his eyes on Harry. "The house is being fine, Master Harry Potter. It is being happy too." He pats the door jamb, and Draco swears he hears the house shift and sigh around them.

Draco and Harry look at each other. A faint smile quirks the edges of Harry's mouth. 

"Well." His eyes are warm, and Draco's heart surges. "I suppose that's all right, then." He holds out a hand to Draco, pulls him back up against him again. "Mistress of Grimmauld Place, eh?" he says with a sideways, slightly embarrassed grin, and Draco pinches Harry's side. 

"You're about as bloody funny as your stupid house," Draco snaps, but he lets Harry wrap his arms around him, hold him tight. He can't think about what this might mean, what it might say about this strange pull he has towards Harry. He can feel his cheeks heat. 

Kreacher rolls his eyes and retreats, shaking his head and muttering something about the masters under his breath. Draco thinks it's fondly, but he can't always be certain. Not with Kreacher.

Harry's hands run up and down Draco's back, fingers light across Draco's spine. "Sorry about that," Harry murmurs against Draco's hair. "My house evidently reads far too bloody much Mills and Boon." 

"Check the bookcases," Draco says, his hands resting on Harry's hips. He loves the feel of Harry against him, and he scowls when Harry pulls back and looks down at him. 

"You know what those are?" Harry laughs in surprise. "Will wonders never cease?"

"Sod off," Draco says, but he smiles a bit. "Pansy went through a phase a few years back whilst we were sharing a flat where she read a whole slew of them. It was terrible." There's no bloody way he's going to admit that he'd snuck the Muggle romances over to his bedroom and had inhaled them as well, feeling horribly sorry for himself that he hadn't found his cowboy-investment banker-billionaire art collector yet. He'd rather Harry not know he'd ever been that pathetic, that desperate for a happy-ever-after. He slides his hands up around Harry's neck, letting his fingers tangle in Harry's thick hair. He likes what he has now, however it might turn out. Even if his heart is broken into shards, even if he's left destroyed like a Shakespearean tragedy.

Harry's just looking at him, his gaze soft and gentle. "Can I kiss you now?" he whispers. "It's only that I've been thinking of it for hours."

Draco's breath catches. "Oh." He presses his body against Harry's. "I think I'd be all right with that."

"Would you?" Harry's lips brush against Draco's, so soft and sweet, and Draco exhales against them. Harry's hands cup Draco's arse, pulling at Draco's arsecheeks through his trousers. Draco lets the kiss deepen, lets his tongue flick lightly against Harry's teeth, and his mouth opens beneath Harry's. They stand in the middle of the Grimmauld Place library, kissing, their bodies pressed together, hands touching, drifting, skimming, until Harry finally pulls back, breathless, a flush spreading across his golden brown cheeks, his mouth pink and swollen and wet.

"Take me upstairs," Draco says, and every inch of his body feels as if it's on fire. "Take me upstairs and shag me senseless, you gorgeous Gryffindor bastard--" Draco breaks off as Harry's hands dig into his arse, pulling him up. He wraps his legs around Harry's hips, his swollen prick pressing through his trousers against Harry's own erection. "Oh, fuck, Harry." Draco looks at him with wide eyes. "Merlin, I want you."

Harry's grin is easy and soft. "Then you'll have me," he says, carrying Draco through the doorway. "As many times as you'd like."

Draco lets his head fall back as Harry's teeth nip at his neck. "Merlin," he breathes out, and the house shudders lightly around them.

As Harry carries Draco up the stairs, Draco's convinced he can smell the scent of roses drifting down the landing, can see the soft glow emanating from the bedroom above.

And with an uncertain thrill, Draco wonders if the house is perhaps on to something, if Grimmauld Place might just one day be home.

***

"Well, that's me done," Jake says, and he sets his empty pint glass on the large, round table they've commandeered in the back corner of Tabac. To be honest, Blaise is a bit surprised they've managed to fit this many people into the space. Jake's sat beside Blaise, with Martine and Espinoza to Jake's left, Pansy and Althea to Blaise's right, and Granger and Weasley across from them. The latter two had been invited by Jake. Well, Granger at least, and Weasley's tagged along, to "have the Ministry buy me a pint or three", he'd said cheerfully.

Except for Weasley, who's still looking around the bar with a curious interest, they're a grim, tired group, their table covered with half-empty glasses and plates of appetizers from the bar's kitchen. The case is starting to wear at all of them, Blaise thinks, fray each one of them a bit at the seams. Even Granger's starting to look a bit grey around the edges, her tight curls drooping into her face as she sips at her white wine. 

Martine lays her hand on Jake's arm. "You going home?" Blaise checks his watch discreetly. It's almost seven; they've only been here half an hour or so.

Blaise glances over at Jake; he's staring down at his empty glass. "Don't know what else to do." Jake looks up at Martine, gives her a tight, small smile. "If I step foot in the squad room while they're looking for Eddie, Graves'll have my balls. For the third time today." He grimaces, then looks over at Blaise when Blaise presses his knee lightly against Jake's thigh. It's the only way he can think of to convey his sympathy; Blaise hates that he feels so stilted and uncertain around Jake at the moment. Jake doesn't move away though. He just watches Blaise, those blue eyes so bright and clear, and fuck, Blaise has to turn away before it overwhelms him. He's confused, and he doesn't know quite what to do next. Blaise hasn't ever felt this way before. It's always been him with the upper hand, he's always been the one people wanted, longed for. Not the other way around. 

Maybe Althea's right. Maybe that's what Blaise is drawn to more than anything. Someone who can look at him, then walk away. 

Circe, but he's a fucked up fool, isn't he? Blaise moves his knee, and he misses the warmth of Jake's body almost immediately.

Jake digs in his pocket, tosses some Muggle money down on the table, all crisp green notes. "That'll cover my beer," he says. And a bit more, Blaise thinks, but he doesn't bother to point that out. No one does. 

Martine adds a few notes to the pile as well, then drains the last of her whisky before setting her glass down. "I'll go with you," she says, and Blaise tries to tap down the flare of jealousy that swells inside of him. She's Jake's fucking best friend, for Merlin's sake, he thinks. Pansy'd do the same for him if he needed her. He catches Althea watching him over the rim of her glass, and he looks away, suddenly uncomfortable. Althea's a sharp one, and even if she's right about him and Jake, Blaise isn't so certain he likes her being so perceptive. He barely knows her, really, and she'd been a shit to Draco for years. He doesn't trust her. Not really. Not entirely. 

But part of him wants to.

Blaise reaches for his old-fashioned, grimacing a bit at the sharp taste of the bitters against his tongue. He looks up as Jake and Martine stand. "All right then?" he asks Jake, as lightly as he can, and when Jake settles his hand on Blaise's shoulder, a prickly, pleasant warmth spreads across Blaise's skin, and Blaise can feel a careful sweep of Jake's mind against him, soft and reassuring.

 _Stop fretting._ The words pop up in Blaise's mind, and Jake squeezes his shoulder. "All good," Jake says out loud, and then his hand's gone as he bends to pick up his satchel. He glances over at Espinoza. "You staying?"

"Maybe a bit longer," Espinoza says with a sideways glance at Blaise. She's interested. Blaise can tell. He wonders if Althea's right. If he should just go off, have a good shag with a brill girl like Alma, stop worrying so much about what might or might not happen with Jake. He'd have fun, have a chance to bleed off some of these bloody hormones that are tormenting him. And it's not as if Jake hasn't told him more than once that he's not interested at the moment. Or that he is, maybe, but he's not going to bloody act on it. 

Blaise isn't going to hang around forever, waiting. He never has, not for anyone, and he's damned well not going to do it for Jake bloody Durant.

Jake frowns, glancing between Blaise and Espinoza. He doesn't like the undercurrent between them. Blaise can tell that. He just lifts his drink again, taking a sip as he raises his eyebrow. _You don't own me,_ he thinks, just in case Jake's trying to prod. Jake's mouth tightens a bit, and he turns back to Espinoza. "We're having a fucking meeting tomorrow morning. Early. You, me and Martine, before Harry and Malfoy get back, so you best be there, with fucking bells on, ready to work. Yeah?"

Espinoza frowns up at Jake. "Yeah, boss. Got it loud and clear." Her gaze flicks back over to Blaise, and Blaise just shrugs one shoulder, almost imperceptibly. 

"Good." Jake relaxes, or tries to, but it's a fucking piss-poor attempt in Blaise's opinion. He steps back, raises his hand. "Y'all enjoy your evening," he says, with one last look at Blaise. Martine stands up herself, and she's watching Jake with an odd, sober frown on her face. When she realises Blaise is looking at her, she blinks and her expression smoothes out into a polite facade of friendliness. 

"See you tomorrow," she says, and she shoves her hands into her trouser pockets as she follows Jake out of the bar, glancing back only once to meet Blaise's gaze before she turns away.

Granger leans over the table. "How's he doing?" she asks Espinoza. "With his brother?"

Espinoza doesn't say anything for a moment. She sets her glass down and sighs. "He's Jake. You know."

"That's what I was afraid of." Granger settles back in her chair and picks up her wine. She takes a sip. "He keeps it all bottled up inside." 

Weasley reaches over and takes an olive from one of the dishes in the centre of the table. He pops it into his mouth and chews slowly. "You should have seen him when Harry broke up with him, and he was sleeping in our spare room. Wouldn't say a bloody thing about it half the time." He glances over at Granger. "Not in front of me at least."

"And that's awkward, let me tell you." Espinoza rests her elbows on the polished walnut tabletop. "I mean, last time I saw Harry, he and Jake were fine, and then he shows up here again after being away for weeks and they're not?" She shakes her head and takes another drink. "It's weird."

The rest of the table is silent, none of them looking at each other. Pansy clears her throat and reaches for the bottle of wine that she and Granger have been sharing, topping up her glass. 

Espinoza glances around. "Are you all trying to pretend like you don't know Harry and Malfoy are fucking?" she asks bluntly. "Because I'm a goddamn Auror, and they're not fucking discreet in the slightest."

Althea raises her glass. "Hear, hear, my friend."

"Oh, thank Circe," Pansy says at the same time, over the rim of her glass. "It's getting ridiculously impossible to figure out who knows." She pushes the bottle of wine towards Granger. "I'm assuming you both do, given you don't look surprised."

Granger frowns. "Harry may have mentioned it," she says, and Blaise applauds her attempt at discretion. 

Which is immediately destroyed by her husband saying, "Fucking hell, how nauseating are they though? I mean, soz, but I don't need to see Harry's hands all over Malfoy's arse." He looks over at Blaise and Pansy. "No offence."

Pansy snorts. "None taken. It's not as if we're thrilled to be exposed to it either."

Espinoza shakes her head. "I don't know how you manage it. You know Jake caught them making out in the incident room the other day." She leans back in her chair looking bloody pleased with herself, Blaise thinks, as the rest of the table turns her way in astonishment.

"They never did," Granger says, more than a bit scandalised, although she also seems as if she wants to laugh. "I mean, they had their hands all over each other in the cab last night coming home from dinner, so..." She grimaces, picking up her wine glass again.

Weasley shakes his head. "Thank Merlin I wasn't back there with them," he mumbles into his pint of beer.

"I had to tell them to stop, the hussies," Granger says, and she does laugh this time, then she presses her hand against her mouth and looks around the table guiltily. "But in the DMLE, really?" She shakes her head. "Poor Jake."

"Poor us, you mean," Blaise says. "Any of us could have walked in on them." He glances over at Espinoza. "So where did this tasty morsel of gossip come from?" What he wants to know is if the whole bloody MACUSA DMLE knows about this and how best he and Pansy can do damage control if they must.

"I heard Jake bitching about it to Martine later in the afternoon," Espinoza says, and Blaise relaxes a little. At least that means it's not the hottest topic around the MACUSA coffee pots. "They think they're quiet, but Martine's voice carries when she's pissed off."

"Were they clothed?" Pansy's affecting a bored air, Blaise thinks, amused, but he knows her well enough to tell she's curious. "Because, please. I'm fairly certain they've fucked in Potter's office back home."

And that surprises Blaise. He looks over at her, eyebrows raised. "Has Draco said--"

Pansy shakes her head. "Not in so many words, but let's face it, he's always been a slag when it comes to Potter. Remember fifth year and how he forced Vince and Greg to follow him around?"

"Oh, Merlin," Weasley says, through a mouthful of bruschetta. "Sixth year for Harry." He nudges Granger's elbow. "Remember, love? 'What's Malfoy doing?'" His voice mimics Potter's almost perfectly, and Blaise can't stop the laugh that bubbles up. "'We need to watch Malfoy. He might be doing something terrible.'"

"In Harry's defence," Granger says calmly, "he was."

Blaise reaches for his drink. "The Vanishing Cabinet, you mean." At Granger's raised eyebrow, he shrugs. "Pansy and I told him he was mad, but he wouldn't listen to us." Draco'd been too caught up in his family, in the humiliation of his father's imprisonment in Azkaban that summer. "Circe, he was a nightmare that year."

"He was frightened," Pansy says, and her voice is soft. Her fingers curl around the stem of her glass; she twists it between them, and the wine swirls up the curve of the bowl. "With good reason."

"And he made shit choices," Weasley says. He rests his elbows on the table. "Really shit ones."

They're quiet for a moment. Blaise knows he should defend Draco. He wants to, but he thinks the same thing. He wishes Draco hadn't done the things he'd done during the war. Wishes he'd stood up to his father sooner. But the past is the past, isn't it?"

"He's paid for them," Pansy says finally. "Trust me." 

Espinoza and Althea are just looking at them, and Blaise knows there's a tension at the table that wasn't there before, a push and a pull between the Gryffindor and Slytherin sides that Blaise isn't certain can ever be bridged. 

Even if Draco and Potter are trying. In their own ridiculous way. 

And then Granger sighs and settles back in her chair. "I know," she says, and she looks over at her husband. "We both do." She picks up her wine glass. "Harry seems to have moved past those days." She glances over at Blaise and Pansy. "For all of you."

A small, sad smile quirks Pansy's mouth. "I did offer to give the guv up to the Dark Lord." She smoothes her thumb over the rim of her glass. "But I think he's forgiven me that."

"Harry's a decent bloke," Weasley says, his voice a bit gruff. He looks away, his jaw working, and Blaise remembers he lost a brother in the War. 

"They're both trying," Althea says, and they all look over at her. Her cheeks flush, but she doesn't duck her head. Her hands cup around her half-empty glass of water, a slice of lemon floating at the top, just above the mostly melted ice. "Malfoy, too, I mean." There's a wistful expression on her face. "I mean I wouldn't mind if I had someone who looks at me the way the two of them look at each other, you know?" Her gaze flicks towards Pansy who's frowning down at her wineglass and doesn't even notice, thank Merlin. Blaise feels a sharp protective twist for Althea, one that he doesn't expect. 

Granger tops off her glass of wine. "Well, as much as I'm glad that they're both getting past things, I do wish they could manage to keep their hands to themselves in taxicabs. It's bloody annoying."

They all laugh, and the tension's diffused, which Blaise is fairly certain is what Granger meant to do after all. He's terribly afraid he's starting to like her.

Blaise lifts his drink and takes a deep swallow. Circe, but that's a horrifying thought.

***

It's just past ten, and Jake's stood at his kitchen counter, cupboard doors open as he contemplates a snack before bed, when hears the scrabbling at his window. Mrs Kim's always complained about squirrels, and he's sure one's made its way into the window gully facing the street again. He turns back to the jars in his cupboard, wondering whether the almonds or the macadamia nuts are fresher. He thinks he has some beef jerky around here somewhere, but to hell with it. He pulls out a bag of Doritos, promising himself he'll just add another fifteen minutes to his run tomorrow. Besides, he hadn't really felt like eating tonight. After the quick drink at Tabac--and Christ, he doesn't want to think about Blaise right now and the way he'd looked at him, the way Blaise's knee had felt pressed against Jake's thigh and the heat it'd sent racing through Jake's body --he'd come home, shared another beer with Martine, and then ordered her out to spend time with her girlfriend. Martine had protested, but she'd gone when he'd made it clear he wanted to be by himself. Besides, he knows Martine and Angie haven't seen each other much this past week and as much as he appreciates his best friend's concern for him, sometimes it's easier for him to be alone with the numbness he seems to be mired in at the moment.

The loud pop of the iron bars and the shatter of glass get his attention. Shit. Jake draws his wand, instinctively shutting off the light over the kitchen sink, and flattens himself to the wall, his heart beating. He peers around the corner, wand in attack position. What he sees in his living room stops him in his tracks.

"Jesus, goddamn fuck, Eddie. Feet pue tan. What the _hell_ are you doing here, cochon?" Jake's not even trying to stay kind with his insults. His fucking brother's standing in his apartment with a sheepish shit-eating grin and a bandaged arm. "You goddamn fucking asshole!"

Eddie shrugs, his smile undimmed. "Nice to see you too, Jakey. Thought you might be happy to see me, but I guess you're just a little shy about showing it."

A surge of relief hits Jake like a wave of sludge, tearing away all of the images of Eddie dead or under torture, and revealing the anger beneath. "Beck moi tschew, you fucking dickhole. When the fuck were you going to tell me you're okay?" He waves his wand at Eddie. "I ought to hex your fucking balls off."

"Hey, hey," Eddie approaches, hands up with a backward glance over his shoulder at the shards of glass across Jake's living room floor. "I'm telling you now, little brother. I'm okay."

"I hate you," Jake is being petty and he could care less. He doesn't look at Eddie. "Really fucking hate you, Eddie, and goddamn it, look at what you did to my window. _Again._ " Jake surveys the broken glass and the stretched out iron bars that Eddie'd crawled through. "Voila merde." He presses a palm against his forehead. It's starting to ache. "Jesus. How many times do I have to tell you if you use that spell more than once, you'll break the iron, and Mrs Kim'll have my ass if she has to call someone out to fix this. Every time you do that, the metal gets weaker. Magical fatigue, jackass."

"It's fine," Eddie protests, then he gestures over his shoulder. "You gonna fix that window, or wait until somebody worse comes in through it?"

"Shut the fuck up." Jake sweeps his wand across the glass and all the fragments leap and shiver, swirling back into the window frame, melting back together in a burst of heat. Another flick and a murmured spell and the iron bars creak and squeal as they bend into shape. Jake holds his breath until they're in place again, none of the bars broken or shattered. 

"I thought it was a little easier to get through them this time," Eddie says from behind him. "You might want to look into getting that fixed."

Jake turns, looks back at Eddie. "You're a shithead."

Eddie leans against the wall, arms crossed. "You really got to do something about that temper of yours, Jakey. You're gonna give yourself a heart attack one day--"

"I'm going to hex you all the fucking way back to Thibodaux if you don't close your fucking trap." Jake's shaking with anger. He can't believe what Eddie's done. The position he's putting Jake into. Goddamn, but Jake's tired of it, tired of having to clean up after Eddie's messes, of having to protect his older brother from his fucking self. "Have you fucking lost your mind?"

"Maybe." Eddie chews on his lip. "You're really pissed off."

And Jake doesn't know what to say to that, whether to laugh or cry or throw a fucking curse at his brother's head. Sometimes he wishes he'd never promised their mama that he'd look after Eddie, keep him out of trouble. Jake's spent his whole career doing that, and where has it got him? With a brother who's incapable of standing on his own two feet, who's a goddamn embarrassment, a complete fuck up. 

"Jesus" is all Jake can manage right now. He turns around, walks past Eddie into the kitchen. "Get the fuck out now. Graves'll find you here."

Eddie follows him, opening up the fridge and taking a long drink out of a carton of orange juice Jake had bought this morning. He sets it down on the counter. "Nah. I figure I got about twelve hours until he figures out everything. I'll be long gone by then." He tucks his arms across his chest, eyeing Jake. "Unless you want to tell him about me, of course. Nothing I can do about that."

Jake's chest is hot with anger and he's having another wave of fury that comes from deep in his soul. He doesn't know where all this rage is coming from, but it's spilling over him. He needs to toss Eddie out now, say only the things that'll get him back out of Jake's space. "I thought you were dead, or worse, you fucker."

The tilt of Eddie's head is so kind, it doesn't change the mocking tone of what he says next. "Aw, Pichouette. Were you worried? You know they can't kill me, not that easy. If they did, Daddy'd bring me back, anyway, just to give me a hidin' for being that stupid."

It's an old joke between them, from back when they were kids, something Jake remembers his daddy saying to them when he was angry the time Eddie had taken Jake down the bayou by themselves and they'd nearly got eaten by a gator. _Go ahead, couillons,_ Jasper had shouted when he'd come after them. _Go get your damn fool selves kilt. I'll just bring you both back to give you a good hidin'. You try me and see._

The memory loosens the ball of glowing rage stuck between Jake's ribs. Only now, with all that happened, Jake's ears prick up, and he starts to think. Maybe it's all the time he's spent with Barachiel Dee lately. "And when you say he's gonna bring you back," he says, "how might he go about doing that?" Despite himself, Jake's curious. He's never thought about this before, and he finds he has more questions than answers swirling in his head. "What the fuck does that really mean, Eddie?"

"Nothing I can tell you about," Eddie looks away. "Daddy's in Oudepoort anyways. Don't much matter now." He picks the orange juice back up and takes a swig.

Jake stands there on his black and white kitchen floor, contemplating murdering his brother and hiding the body, beyond even his father's reach. Eddie's already on the run--it wouldn't be hard to throw people off the track, and he doubts they'd look too hard after a week or two. "You want anything to go with that?" he asks after a moment as his brother takes another swallow of orange juice. He means it sarcastically. He's still thinking about hexing Eddie, still furious.

"Yeah." Eddie wipes his mouth. "You got any bacon to go with those eggs in your fridge?"

"Turkey bacon," Jake says, enjoying the grimace that passes over his brother's handsome features.

"That's cold, Jake." Eddie eyes him. "You know that's not bacon."

"I could get a pizza," Jake offers. "I haven't had much to eat myself." Maybe eating will keep him from wanting to eviscerate his brother, he thinks. Probably not. He's itching to punch Eddie in the goddamn face. At the very least.

"I can hear you, you know." Eddie lifts the orange juice carton again. "Not everything, but you don't want to add murder to the list of your misadventures. Not even Graves would pardon his top Legilimens then."

Jake can almost feel the jealousy radiating from his brother, and huh, isn't that interesting? "Malfoy told me you could read. I didn't know you were this good." He hasn't spent as much time with his brother in recent years, and Jake experiences a pang of regret at how little they've seen each other, mostly because of his travel schedule. And his unwillingness to deal with his family, if he's honest.

He hears his brother's next words in his head. _There's a hell of a lot you don't know, little brother._

Jake shakes his head, screening his brother out. "Aloud, if you please."

"Suits me," Eddie says. He stretches his arms over his head, frowning at his badly bandaged arm. Jake's pretty fucking certain Eddie cast that charm himself. Clumsily. Jake's sure as hell not going to fix it for him. "I'm tired out from this morning anyhow."

"How the fuck did you cast all of that?" Jake's stomach flips at the thought. Magic runs strong in both of their parents' lines, but that was more than Eddie should have been able to do alone. 

"If I let you know that..." Eddie trails off, then gives him a lazy smile. "Pichouette, you know I ain't going to say anything, so stop asking."

Jake frowns at him. "You had help, Eddie. You had to have. They're tracking a spell to Lower Manhattan. They think it's me."

Eddie's face falls at that. "Nah. They wouldn't."

"They would." 

"Fuck that shit," Eddie says hotly. "Tom Graves is a goddamn asshole."

"An asshole who told me I was to bring you in if I saw you." Jake looks at his brother, taking in the dark, puffy circles beneath Eddie's eyes, the scruff along his jaw. He's found clothes from somewhere, none of which fit properly, all of which look too fucking expensive for Eddie's wallet, which makes Jake think he must have grabbed them out of a dryer at a laundromat. Probably in Cobble Hill.

Eddie watches him. "You won't."

"I fucking ought to." Jake walks over to the fridge and grabs a beer, knocking the cap off against the counter before he takes a long swig. He wipes his hand across the back of his mouth. "Jesus, Ed. You don't fucking think what any of this will do to me, do you?" Eddie doesn't say anything, and Jake rolls his eyes. "Fine. Whatever. Why the hell are you here?"

Eddie's silent for a moment. He puts the orange juice down again, folds his hands back behind his head and sighs. "Didn't want you to worry," he says finally. "I have to disappear for a bit, Jakey, and I wanted you to know I was okay."

Jake has to ask, even though he knows he won't get a straight answer. "Where are you going?"

"To find something." Eddie gives him a half-smile. Before Jake can say anything, Eddie holds up his hand and adds, "I ain't going to tell you."

Not that Jake thought he would. Jake takes another drink from his beer bottle, not looking over at his brother. He doesn't know what to do. Eddie's right; Jake has no intention of bringing him in. Or even telling Graves he's seen Eddie. Jake rubs a hand over his face. Goddamn, he's so fucking tired. "Is it illegal?"

He looks up to see Eddie's sober face. "Not in so many words," Eddie says after a moment. "But it might help what I've fucked up."

They just look at each other for a long moment. "So you're fucking off to fix all of this," Jake says, and Eddie shrugs. 

"I made a Hand of Glory, Jakey." Eddie's face is grim. "Knew I shouldn't, but the money was good and I had some assholes to pay off. And then good people got killed. Billy got killed--" Eddie chokes up a bit, looks away, his face twisting with guilt and grief. "And I got to do something about that, man. You know?"

"No, you don't," Jake says, fear twisting in his stomach. "Ed--"

Eddie shakes his head, cutting him off. "He fucked up my goddamn Hand of Glory, Jake. Used it before it was cured. That shit's messed up and it ain't gonna work right." He scowls. "And I've got a reputation to think of. People go around hearing that was my Hand, and business'll dry up. Can't take that, yeah?"

But Jake knows he's using that as an excuse. "Eddie, it wasn't your fault Billy died."

"Yeah," Eddie says quietly. "It was, Jakey." He meets Jake's gaze. "And I really got to take care of that, okay?"

Jake just looks at him. "What are you going to do?"

Eddie takes another swig of orange juice, his throat working as he swallows. He sighs as he puts the carton aside again. "Jake, there's things you best not know. Keep you safe." He looks determined, and Jake knows Eddie's going to do what Eddie's going to do. "You just know that I'll be okay, and when things are set right, I'll tell you, yeah?"

All Jake can do is nod.

"Good." Eddie reaches over and ruffles Jake's hair. "I got to go, Jakey. Don't want anyone tracking me down to your place." He jerks Jake into a tight hug, slapping him on the back. "Stay the fuck away from Dolohov," Eddie says, his voice quiet. "Just promise me that."

"You know I can't." Jake hates it when his brother pulls away. He's frightened, deeply so, and he just wants to cling to Eddie like he had when he was a little boy. Beg him to stay, to hide out here with Jake. 

Eddie gives him a small smile. "I know, Pichouette."

For the first time the nickname makes Jake's heart hurt. "Ed--"

And then Eddie's gone, Apparating away with a sharp crack that echoes through the silence of Jake's apartment. 

Jake stands in the middle of his kitchen, his beer clutched in one hand, feeling small and young, and oh so very lost.

***

Harry shifts and breathes deeply, the warmth of his skin pleasantly cooled by the rumpled sheets around his waist. He'd kicked off the blanket sometime during the night--or at least sometime after he and Draco had finally fallen asleep, deliciously shagged out--but as he yawns and stretches, rolling over in the bed to kiss Draco good morning, he realises his boyfriend's up already. The other half of the bed is empty, but still lightly warm as Harry stretches his hand out. So, not that long then, Harry thinks.

The room's a bloody mess as Harry stands, wondering where the hell his pyjama bottoms went. He'd carried Draco upstairs last night and fairly ripped his dress uniform off him the moment he'd dropped Draco onto the bed. They'd shagged until the wee hours, Draco yielding to him, riding him, clinging to him, his soft mouth hot and biting, his long, lean body loose and supple around Harry's. Fuck, but Harry still can't believe how different it is to shag Draco across his own bed again, instead of the hotel's, how thinking about Draco as part of his life now, part of Grimmauld even, had made Harry impossibly hard, had taken over his body and not let him go until he was wrung out and sated, three or so teeth-rattlingly brilliant orgasms later.

Part of him can't wait until they're home for good, until Harry can walk through the corridors of the Ministry with Draco beside him, not giving a fuck any longer who sees them or who notices the way Harry puts his hand on the small of Draco's back, the way Draco looks over at Harry when he thinks Harry won't notice, the way their bodies are so bloody attuned to know when the other is in the same room. He wonders what it'll be like to be open about Draco and what he means to Harry, if it'll cause the problems Gawain seems to think it will. Harry doesn't care. He wants to shout through all of wizarding Britain that Draco Malfoy is his, that he's Draco Malfoy's, and neither of them gives a flying rat's arse what anyone else might say about that. 

Harry gives up on his pyjamas and pulls on a pair of Chudley Cannons boxers, the ones that Draco mocks him for wearing, the ones with the little figures on brooms whirring around on a faded orange ground. He thinks about putting a shirt on, but realises there's really no point. The house is cool, and it's a bit grey and rainy outside, quiet drops tapping at the window panes, running down in slow rivulets, but the chill feels nice against his skin. Besides, Kreacher's seen most of Harry starkers already over the years if he runs into him in the hall. His eyes find the new door in the corner, the one the house had created last night. It'd popped into existence sometime after their third round of sex; Harry'd poked his head in when he'd had to get up to go piss, Draco snoring softly by his side. As far as he could tell, it's an empty room, with shelves up one wall. He'll go through before they leave in a little bit--Harry for the Ministry, Draco for his meeting with Avery--and check to see if anything else has shown up unexpectedly. For now, Harry just wants to find Draco, kiss him good morning properly.

Harry pads down the central staircase, the worn treads cool on his bare feet. As he descends the last flight to the kitchen, he can smell toast and something promisingly tea-like drifting through the air. He wonders idly if Kreacher's prepared something, and if he'll find his boyfriend at the table.

The scene that meets his eye makes Harry stop and stare for a moment. Draco's standing at the kitchen counter in Harry's pyjama trousers, buttering toast, a half-empty glass of water next to his elbow. The long curve of his back is turned to Harry, and it's one of the most breathtaking sights Harry's seen, Draco's pale skin juxtaposed against the dark kitchen cupboards. Soft grey light from the high, narrow, rain-streaked window is shading Draco's rumpled, sex-tangled hair in shadows and Harry's pyjamas ride low on Draco's hips, giving Harry a glimpse of the dip of Draco's crease. Harry rubs his arm in the cool air, watching.

"I can hear you heavy-breathing from there, Harry. It's not off-putting at all, you stalker." The knife in Draco's hand continues to spread a thin slick of butter across the steaming toast. "Oh, to be home and eat proper butter again. It melts the right way."

"I can think of other things that melt the right way all the time." Harry stumbles up to Draco, nuzzling the back of Draco's neck at the nape, running his lips to his earlobe and making Draco shiver beneath his touch. "Although it's still nicer at home." He slides his arms around Draco's waist, pulling him up against him. "Hey, did you see the new doorway in the bedroom?"

"Yes." Draco leans back against Harry, his knife still scraping across the toast. "The house seems to have decided we need a dressing room." He puts the knife down on the counter and takes a bite of toast. "Or I do, I suppose," he says through a mouthful of buttery crumbs. "Since it's trying to woo me." He holds up the toast. "Hungry?"

Harry leans over Draco's shoulder and takes a bite. It's delicious, warm and sweet and crispy-creamy. "What exactly is a dressing room?"

Draco looks back at him, surprise on his face. "You Philistine. Do you not really know?"

"Didn't really grow up with one in Number Four Privet Drive," Harry says. "So no?"

"You poor bastard," Draco says lightly. He takes another bite of the toast and chews, swallowing before he answers. "My mother had one off her bedroom. It's what it says on the tin. A room for dressing. Clothes go there, shoes. Mother kept her handbags and jewelry there. I used to love going in to watch her dress to go out when I was a child. She'd spray me with perfume when she left, and I'd fall asleep smelling like her."

Harry kisses a bit of buttery smear off the corner of Draco's mouth, slow and sweet. "So it's a good thing to have?"

"It's not the worst." Draco leans his head back against Harry's shoulder. His snarled hair tickles Harry's nose. "Really, it's a sweet gesture from the house."

"I think it likes having you here." Harry slides his hand up Draco's stomach, over his chest, Harry's thumb sliding over one of Draco's nipples, pinching it, rolling it between his fingertips. Draco inhales sharply. "So do I." Harry bites at Draco's shoulder, lets his teeth slide lightly over Draco's salty-sweet skin.

Draco sets his toast down, but his hands are shaking a bit. "Get away, you menace. As I recall, you had me three times last night."

Harry laughs into the sensitive spot on the back of Draco's neck, humming in agreement as Draco shivers beneath him. "And I'd have you again in a heartbeat," he whispers into Draco's ear, his teeth nipping at Draco's jaw.

Draco laughs and arches his back under Harry's mouth. "If only my arse could take it," he says, and his voice is regretful. "But I'm afraid it's beyond even a soothing spell at the moment. You beast." There's a smile in his words, though, soft and warm. 

"Pity," Harry says, nudging his mouth lower, down Draco's spine, across his narrow ribs, down to the swell of his arse. "Perhaps I can help soothe it. With my mouth."

The shudder that goes through Draco's body is gratifying, especially when Draco braces himself on the heels of his hands on the counter, thrusting back against Harry's mouth. "Circe's tits, Harry. You're insatiable."

Harry noses at Draco's arsecheek, then bites it through the thin fabric. "For you, baby?" he says and Draco makes a soft, quiet sound. Harry looks up at him, at the pale stretch of Draco's knobby back and the tangle of silver-gilt hair. "Of course." He tucks his fingers beneath the waistband of the trousers, sliding it with little resistance over Draco's hips. Harry's fingertips brush across the hollows of Draco's hipbones, the dimples of Draco's taut arse, as he pushes the fabric down to pool around Draco's bony, elegant feet.

And then Harry's on his knees, in one of his favorite positions, his mouth nipping across soft skin to his boyfriend's arsehole, his hands pushing Draco's arsecheeks open. Harry slides a finger across the pink pucker first, mumbling a quick charm. 

Draco starts under his hands. "Was that a cleaning spell?"

"Fuck, yeah," Harry's watching the flex and hollow of Draco's arse, the still loose and puffy rim of his hole, stretched from the night before. He lets his fingertip slip in ever so slightly. "I want to kiss you afterwards."

Draco leans forward, planting his elbows on the counter, spreading his feet wider apart, and giving Harry better access. "Then you'll say another when you're done, you dirty lad."

Harry takes a moment to smile, loving this early morning comfort, the ease with which Draco tells him to clean his teeth. Although he's eager to make his boyfriend writhe beneath him, the quiet domesticity of this moment is almost more amazing. Harry's never let anyone--not even Jake--have the run of Grimmauld like this, never felt this effortlessly comfortable with anyone before, never wanted someone to stay with him for days and days instead of getting caught in that prickly feeling of impatience, of wanting them just to get up and go the hell home. It's a brand new feeling, this, and Harry could get used to it, he thinks. 

He hopes he can have the opportunity to, at least.

The lovely, taut arse in front of Harry's nose shifts, and Draco says, "Waiting, Potter. I believe I was promised soothing, but all I can feel is cold air."

Harry nips the curve of Draco's arse, just above his thigh, and Draco squeaks and jerks beneath Harry's hands. "Brat," Harry says, but he smiles against Draco's soft skin, then stands up, Draco huffing a moan of protest. 

"Give me a second." Harry takes off his glasses and sets them on the counter, then grabs the glass of water Draco'd set beside the butter, swallowing it down to make sure there aren't any toast crumbs left in his mouth. "Ready?" he whispers into Draco's ear before he slides down Draco's body again, his hands and mouth trailing along Draco's soft skin. 

And then, the moment Harry's knees hit the floor again, Harry dives in, his tongue seeking the soft furl of Draco's arse, easily hooking inside the rim. Draco's arsecheeks clench around him, then release. 

"Oh, fuck, that's bloody marvellous." Draco's panting.

Harry uses his hands to pry Draco's arsecheeks further apart, mouthing slickly at Draco's crease. He pushes his tongue further into Draco's warmth, stabbing the tip inside, then licking softly. Draco's moaning and shaking, not really making words anymore, just soft, keening gasps that go straight to Harry's prick, making him so fucking hard. He smoothes his palms across Draco's arse, and he can almost feel the bob of Draco's prick in the air, swelling with each slow curl of Harry's tongue inside of him. 

"Please," Draco manages to get out finally. "Oh, Harry. Yes." He arches his back, pushes his arse back against Harry's face. "Eat me." Draco groans, and he presses his head against his forearms, his hips cocked out, his stance as wide as he can get it. 

Harry ghosts his hands up and down Draco's inner thighs, stroking lightly, causing shivers to wrack Draco's body, as his mouth locks on Draco's arse, his tongue deep inside Draco's loose hole. Really, Harry could do this for hours, just take Draco apart, lick by lick, until Draco was trembling, begging, desperate. Christ but Harry loves this man, wants him, needs him in ways Harry'd never thought possible. He wants to see Draco come undone for him, to know that he can make Draco feel this good, that he can touch Draco and make Draco writhe beneath him, make Draco want him this badly. It's a heady rush of emotion that's nearly Harry's undoing, and he digs his fingers into Draco's hips, pressing his face into Draco's soft skin, trying to tell Draco with each careful twist and thrust of his tongue how bloody mad Harry is for him.

Draco's bent over the counter, his slick prick pressing into the plane of the cupboard. Harry can feel his own cock between his legs, hot and heavy, pressing against the flap of his boxers, the swollen head pushing through and if they hadn't been shagging all night, Harry'd love to bend Draco over further, shove into him again, feel that silken heat clench around him, carrying Harry into a shudder of pleasure. Fuck, but Harry can't get enough of Draco. The more Harry tries, the more he wants Draco, and the deeper Draco gets under his skin. 

Harry's lost, entirely, heart, body and soul to this snarky snide bastard who's been everything Harry's longed for all of his life. It frightens him and delights him, and Harry can't imagine anything better than to wake up in a bed smelling of Draco Malfoy, to come down to his kitchen and find him here, so ready and waiting for Harry to pull him apart like this, bit by tiny bit.

"Take me, Harry." Draco's writhing, his hips pressing back to meet Harry's touch. "Oh, God--" His thighs shake; he gasps. 

And Harry swirls his tongue, forming a stiffer point and thrusting to reach further inside Draco. Draco's scrabbling at the counter now, his nails scraping against the hard surface, groans spilling from his mouth. Harry's about to reach between Draco's legs when the trembling starts. Draco's arse clenches around Harry's tongue, and Draco cries out, harsh and guttural, as his spunk spatters hot and wet against the smooth wood of the cupboard.

Harry's gasping for breath, mouthing at Draco's skin and telling Draco how beautiful he is, how amazing he feels, breathing against the soft heat of Draco's skin, and it's everything to be kneeling on the worn floorboards of his kitchen, so fucking in love with Draco he could die. Right here. And Harry'd be fulfilled.

Draco's hand flaps at Harry's shoulder, pulls him up. Draco turns around and faces him, his hair even more mussed, his face flushed and blotchy. He's Harry's and he looks amazing like this, wrecked, gorgeous. "Say the spell, Harry," Draco says, biting his already puffy lips. "I need to kiss you. Now."

Harry remembers and says it.

And then Draco's kissing him, hard and eager and hungry, as he reaches into the fly of Harry's boxers with clever, long fingers, pulling Harry's prick out, and then squeezing so that Harry's eyes nearly roll back in his head. "This is a horrible shade of orange, you realise."

"Yeah," Harry chokes out. "Terrible." He shudders, his fingers grabbing at Draco's shoulders, trying to keep himself upright. 

"If you want me to keep fucking you," Draco says breathily, sliding down Harry's body, "I think it's best you find some better pants, don't you?" He rubs his thumb over Harry's slick head. "Silk ones, perhaps. I think I'd like stroking you off in those."

Harry just groans, staring down at Draco. "What are you--"

Draco bites his lip, looking up at Harry. "I'd like you to come on my face, Harry," he says, so quietly that Harry can barely hear him. "If you wouldn't mind?"

"Oh, fucking Christ," Harry says, his eyes widening, and Draco's sliding Harry's foreskin up, rolling it between finger and thumb. 

"And as long as we're changing your pants out," Draco says with a smile, "perhaps we should weed out some of those terrible t-shirts you like."

Harry's legs are shaking, and he has to let go of Draco's shoulders, reach over him to grab the edge of the counter. "Anything," Harry chokes out. "Anything you want to get rid of, just don't stop--" He groans. "Fuck."

"Carte blanche, then, to fill our new dressing room," Draco says, his eyes crinkling, his fingers pushing Harry's foreskin back down his shaft, his thumb sweeping across Harry's wet slit. "Perhaps I ought to let you come on my face more often--"

And, with a loud cry, Harry's climax tears through him, shakes the sense from his brain, breaks his body under its weight and spits him out like a riptide. Harry's shuddering against Draco's skin, gripping the counter, his arms and legs shaking, his prick slick in Draco's hand, and he hears Draco say wonderingly, "Oh. You were so close."

He looks down at Draco, sees his spunk in stripes across Draco's cheeks, smeared over Draco's lips, and Harry makes a soft noise, his fingers unclenching from the counter's edge to drag lightly across Draco's stickily spattered skin. Draco turns his head, catches Harry's fingertips, sucks them clean before letting them slide out of his mouth one by one. 

"Draco," Harry says, his voice shaky, and he wipes the back of his hand across Draco's cheek as he casts another cleaning charm, Draco's breath catching at the spark of magic across their skin.

And then Draco's standing, and they're embracing in the kitchen, their arms tight around each other, and Harry doesn't want to let Draco go, doesn't want to leave, doesn't want to let Draco out, wants to hide here in Grimmauld Place with him and just let the world pass them by, make people forget their names whilst they're whispering them to each other.

They can't stay, and Harry doesn't want to leave.

He buries his face against Draco's neck and breathes him in. 

Nothing, Harry thinks, can ever be the same again.

***

"Sorry, you did what the goddamn fuck now?" Durant's looking at Althea incredulously, and Pansy notices that he doesn't dare turn that icy, blue-eyed look of surprised fury on Blaise. She supposes it's just a matter of time before they both stop beating around the bush, but honestly, it can't come soon enough for her mind.

They're all standing in the MACUSA incident room--everyone but Espinoza, that is--waiting for the guv and Draco to get back on their Portkey, and really, that's another whole eyeroll there. Pansy doesn't have enough snark for a bloody Tuesday morning. At least Tony's not involved in this part of the case, she thinks, and her mind strays to broad shoulders and sandy hair. He'd rung her up last night, offered to come over to her hotel room, and she'd almost taken him up on it. Stupid of her, she thinks, but she's never been fucking rational when it comes to Tony. She can hate him and still want him inside of her, shagging her until she comes like an Erumpent in heat. At least she can feel virtuous for telling him no last night. Except she knows full well she only did it to tease him, make him want her more, but why be honest with herself? Pansy takes another sip of her venti skinny moccachino and tries to focus back on the conversation in front of her.

"We went down to Brighton Beach." Althea's voice is level, steady. She doesn't flinch away from Durant's angry scowl. "And talked to the witness, Fyodor Popov."

Martine's standing behind Durant's shoulder, her hands in her pockets. She looks more relaxed today, Pansy thinks. "It's actually not a bad idea. That one wasn't telling us everything, but it was hard to push in front of his friend who's on our side."

Althea flashes a smile at Martine, and Pansy's lips twist up. They have to look out for each other. Durant's being a little heavy-handed, probably because of his brother's case and how tough Graves is being on him, but really, rules are more guidelines than need to be worked around than hard-and-fast limits. They all know that. They're Aurors for Circe's sake, or Unspeakables, in Durant's case. Pansy'd wager there wasn't one of them--Durant included--who hadn't bent a procedure now and then when it meant they'd get a fucking result. There's an art to policing, after all. 

"We didn't have field permission to get anywhere near Dolohov right now," Durant says, a mulish twist to his lips. "Graves explicitly wanted to give Paloma and Tim's team the lead for that operation--"

"And how important does your director think it is to apprehend Dolohov?" Blaise pushes off from the edge of the table and draws level with Althea in front of Jake. "That bastard's put me in hospital twice, Draco once, and he killed Althea's mum. So, you might say, we're a bit interested in actually doing our fucking job and finding him, whatever the fuck MACUSA seems to think."

Pansy's stomach sinks at the grimness in Blaise's voice. She gets ready to back him up because this one's personal, for all of them, whether or not Jake bloody Durant want to admit it. She's also intrigued by the look that flashes between Blaise and Althea. They're clearly understanding each other well, and really, it's good for their team, but Pansy finds herself a mite jealous as well. She was enjoying being the one who related to Althea. Maybe she has let herself get far too distracted by Tony here. She resolves to make that up, and soonish. If nothing else, she needs another woman to help her counter the stubborn sausage fest that's their sodding team.

Blaise and Durant aren't too far apart, and the air's almost crackling between them, unspoken emotions sharp and jagged and far too bright. Blaise is hurt; Pansy can tell how he's holding his shoulders, rolled back but ready to strike if he's pushed the wrong way, even though he's trying so hard to keep all of that tucked away out of sight. And again, she's really furious with Jake Durant for being such a moron. One doesn't keep Blaise Zabini waiting, much less turn him away. Durant's just lucky that Blaise's being too noble to use his Veela, although Pansy honestly thinks it's beginning to slip through. Just on the edges, not in any way compelling, but Blaise has looked terribly gorgeous lately, even to her, and Pansy's usually immune to his charm. That ship sailed years ago, although she's still unbearably fond.

"We all want the same thing, Blaise," Durant says, and his voice has a note of frustration and roughness in it. He leans forward to make his point, getting into Blaise's space a bit, and oh, Pansy thinks, that's such a terrible idea. She winces a bit as Blaise's eyes narrow. He does hate having people push him like that. "There's just a lot to coordinate." Durant scowls. "You know, so that we can actually catch the bastard properly? Without doing something stupid that a lawyer can use to get him out of the charges?"

"Could've fooled me," Blaise says in a mocking drawl, his eyes locked with Jake's, refusing to step back. "But I'm sure I don't understand the complexity of your commitments." His nostrils flare and Pansy almost feels sorry for Durant. Almost.

Martine's clever, bright eyes flash to Pansy's face, and Pansy raises an eyebrow at her, recognising the gesture. She's doing a threat assessment in case this gets out of control, trying to see if Pansy's likely to do anything stupid to protect Blaise. Althea's probably too Ravenclaw to get involved, although she's a tough customer and she's on their side, so Pansy wouldn't count her out. Pansy'll back Blaise on anything, and she doesn't want Martine feel like it'd be easy to corral them. She widens her stance a bit, dropping her weight into her knees the way Tony had taught her, and getting ready to throw her satchel if Blaise or Jake throws a punch. She's pretty sure they won't, but still, it pays to be prepared. She thinks idly about what to do with her high heels--in this sort of scenario, she should probably ditch them. She wouldn't want anyone to get seriously hurt. If they were facing enemies, though, she'd use them to strike with.

The door swings open, catching everyone's attention.

"Hey, what'd we miss?" Potter walks into the room, Draco following quietly behind him, his hair falling across one cheek. He's wearing one of Potter's white shirts, she realises, a bit looser in the shoulders than his own, and it's tucked into his tightly tailored black trousers, the sleeves closed off with the silver serpent cufflinks Draco's had since his fifth year in Hogwarts. They'd been a birthday present from his mother, delicately shaped and engraved with protective runes. 

Pansy doesn't see any love bites yet, not above the collars of their shirts at least, but the entire way their bodies are responsive to each other, leaning into one another, so very certain of the space between them, suggests they just stopped fucking and will start again soon. And there's something more. She catches the private smile on Draco's face, soft and happy and content when he looks over at the guv. And Potter's the same. His eyes would light up a goddamn room if Draco was in it. _Fuck,_ she thinks again. _They really are so bloody in love, whether or not they know it._ Pansy can see it written across both their faces as plain as day, and it makes her happy for Draco and also so terribly, terribly worried at the same time.

Durant turns towards Potter. "Your team," he says, his irritation so very evident in his tone, "decided it would be a great idea to break their directive to stay in the office in favour of going into Dolohov's territory to ask around. While you and Malfoy were…" Durant hesitates, then says, "Busy in England."

The guv just raises an eyebrow. "Okay." He glances over at the rest of Seven-Four-Alpha, obviously waiting for their side of things.

As Blaise snorts and Althea frowns, Pansy steps in before either one of them says something truly idiotic. "That's hardly what happened." She gives Durant a sharp look. "Blaise and Althea went down to the beach again to get the lay of the land and wound up finding out something useful." She's recognised the look on their faces, even without them saying that yet. She turns to Althea. "You _have_ got something, right?"

Althea nods. Potter's standing facing Durant, drawing his attention to the side, whilst Draco circles to Pansy's shoulder, another instinctive backup manoeuvre for which she is grateful.

"Everything all right?" Draco murmurs. He smells like Potter's soap, she thinks, and she doesn't know why that surprises her a bit. Of course they'd spend the night together. Why wouldn't they?

"It will be," Pansy says under her breath. "If Blaise keeps his temper."

Potter's eyes move over at Blaise, who's still livid with anger, Pansy, and then Althea. "Why don't we listen to what they have to say?"

There's a moment where Pansy's actually not sure what's going to happen, but then Durant backs down, and Pansy sees Martine visibly relax at his side. "Fine. But it's on your head, not mine, if Tom comes down on us for that stupid idea."

Potter shrugs. "I really doubt he could hate me more. So, I'm not too worried."

Pansy pulls Blaise towards her, draws him deeper into the room. He's furious, she can tell, his movements still tense and clipped. "Calm down," she whispers. 

He shrugs her hand off, sitting down in a seat at the corner table and splaying his legs in a way that shows maximum irritation. Pansy wants to roll her eyes, but she knows it'll just set him off more. "I'm fine."

He's anything but, Pansy knows, but she can't ask him about it. Circe, she thinks he should just get laid, especially if Durant's not going to do it. Blaise is seething ball of sexual frustration and it's driving her mad, really. Not that she blames him entirely. She suspects all the shagging Potter and Draco are doing around them aren't helping Blaise's hormones any. Poor bastard.

Draco and Althea sit at the table next to them, and then Martine. Potter's exchanging a few words in the corner with Durant, who's scowling and tense but less scathingly angry. Pansy realises he must be asking about Durant's brother. She thinks she hears him say "Eddie," but it's a little too far away to hear properly.

When Pansy looks over, Draco's not even watching Potter and Durant. Interesting, Pansy thinks, and she wants to know what happened in London, what's shifted between Draco and Potter that's letting him be that relaxed when Potter has his head bent close to his ex's. Instead Draco's eyeing her and Blaise thoughtfully before leaning over to Althea and asking her how things have been. He looks relaxed, far more relaxed than she'd expected actually after seeing his arsehole of a father. Another thing she needs to ask about, separate from Potter if she can.

Pansy rests a hand on Blaise's knee. "I'm sorry, Blaise," she says lightly. "I'll help you dispose of the body if you need me to." Her gaze flicks back to Durant.

Blaise looks over, then puts a hand over hers, squeezing a bit. He gives her a wry smile. "Thanks, old girl. I appreciate it."

Potter and a somewhat chastened Durant walk back to the centre of the room. Potter steps in front of his team, leaving the corner near the door to Durant. When the guv clears his throat to talk to them, Martine shifts, looking at her nails in an excellent and slightly insulting posture of boredom and disrespect. Pansy is impressed with how much she can't stand Potter. She'd have done bloody well in Slytherin, Pansy thinks.

"So, evidently testifying the Wizengamot was less challenging than what you were all up to yesterday," Potter quips, and it's a dumb joke, but they laugh. Even Draco's mouth quirks up, and Durant rolls his eyes and leans against the wall. "I know I've missed a lot, so let's just do a quick roundup and then we'll try to get into the question of what Whitaker and Zabini figured out and how we can coordinate with the ongoing field operations."

They all shift in their seats, quills and biros and notepads coming out.

"Parkinson, how's the lab?" Potter's looking directly at her. He picks up the white board quill. "Anything I need to add to what we have up here?"

Pansy shrugs, trying to pretend Jake Durant isn't right there in the room with her. "Well, there's a lot of data. Graves asked me to work on the disappearance of Eddie Durant from St Mungo's." She flashes an apologetic smile at Durant, who looks away. 

And isn't that interesting, Pansy thinks. He's not that worried about him anymore or he'd be hanging on her every word. Just angry, then. But why?

"So, we're still tracking and there's nothing conclusive," she says, turning her attention back to Potter as Durant shifts, arms crossed tightly over his chest. "But I haven't forgotten our other work, rest assured."

She sits back, folding her arms over her chest too and pushing her tits out. Althea glances at her to make sure she's finished talking, and damned if Althea eyes don't dart to Pansy's cleavage. Pansy gives her a cheeky grin, flattered by the attention. Althea blushes and quickly turns back to the guv. Blaise elbows Pansy and gives her a side-eye. She shrugs, annoyed at being the only one who's at all got a sense of humour.

"We did go to Brighton Beach yesterday," Althea says as Potter puts his hands into his pockets, ruining the line of his navy jacket. She glances over to Durant. "But we didn't do it to track Dolohov. We wanted to get a better sense of the geography of what we had in the files. And to see if we could get more out of Fyodor Popov."

Durant makes as if to speak, and Potter flashes him a look. Durant stops, scowls, and leans back against the wall. 

"And did you find anything out?" Potter says. Pansy knows he's trying to protect them, that he will protect them, but that he could get into trouble too if Durant wants to push it.

"The Old Man paid for Fyodor's cousin to go to Ilvermorny." Blaise says, and Althea nods.

Martine lets out a huff. "Are you sure? He told us about Les Harkaway going to Ilvermorny--"

"It was definitely his cousin he mentioned," Althea says. "Lenka Popova. She was meant to go to Paracelsus High in Queens because her family couldn't afford to pay Ilvermorny's tuition. Then the Old Man stepped in."

Blaise nods slowly, all eyes in the room on him. "So, Popov suggested we look at the records at Ilvermorny of who paid for Lenka's education. And I'd say it wouldn't hurt to check out who paid Les Harkaway's as well?"

Pansy watches Durant push off of the wall and come forward, approaching the table where Althea and Blaise are sitting. Althea sits up straighter. Blaise's tone doesn't falter. "I mean, it could be through a shell corporation," Blaise says. "Or there might be a trust, but those all have to have signatory parties, don't they? Even if it ends in a solicitor's office."

"Lawyer's," Durant says automatically, stopping right in front of Blaise and scrutinising him for a moment. Potter's watching Durant carefully as well, hand casually sliding along the wand in his thigh holster. It's an instinctive response to threat, and Pansy knows from Draco that the guv doesn't need his wand for most spells, but she appreciates the protectiveness of the gesture nonetheless.

Durant's face cracks into a wide smile, all his anger sliding away, and Blaise ducks his head for a moment. Pansy's heart twists at how open and raw his face looks. "That's--" Durant pauses. "How would y'all say it? Bloody fucking brilliant, Blaise."

Blaise's eyes light up at the praise, and his whole demeanour shifts. Fuck, Pansy thinks, and she wants to strangle Jake Durant. "It's just a bit of legwork, that's all." He nods to Althea. "She needs to get credit for it too. Althea knew we had to track what was in the files to the geography."

Durant shakes Althea's hand, and she nods graciously at him, a small smile on her face. Pansy's impressed by her poise. Pansy would have been a complete bitch to Durant in her place. She still wants to be, if she's honest, and she narrows her eyes at him. Durant catches her gaze, and his smile falters, slips away. He takes a step back. Good, Pansy thinks. Fucking bastard.

"Great." Potter says, visibly relieved. "Who do we need to hear from next? Martine?"

Martine shrugs. "Alma and I met with immigration yesterday. She's still down there, trying to get some of the records unsealed. I will say that we found jack shit about Harkaway in there, and his mother's trail was also cold."

Durant frowns. "Weird."

"You think?" Martine shakes her head. "I don't know if they lost them or what, but they've got nothing. So we went after anything we could find on Antonin Dolohov's movements through immigration over the past decade."

Pansy sits back as Martine continues. There's been more than enough drama for the morning, she thinks. She glances at Draco, who smiles back at her and mimes drinking a cup of tea with a raised eyebrow, and she nods back.

Yes, she thinks. Tea will have to be drunk. Possibly with whisky. There's plenty to find out about still, and most of it probably isn't designed for mixed company. She ponders a security clearance of "Slytherins Only." If she could, she'd implement it immediately.

Martine's halfway through the trace on Dolohov's papers and why it didn't work as well as they hoped, when the door opens up.

The first thing Pansy sees is a gorgeous bouquet of white roses, at least six or seven dozen in a huge rectangular white vase. They're filling the doorway to the incident room, and half-covering the figure holding them.

"Constable Pansy Parkinson?" a female voice asks from behind the roses.

Durant and Potter both flank Pansy as she gets up and crosses to the door. "Yes," Pansy says, utterly shocked. "That's me."

The delivery witch carrying the flowers brings them in, sets them on the first table in front of Martine. "Sign here, please."

Astonished, Pansy glances at the guv, and he nods, then looks over at Durant. "Find out who they're from," Potter says under his breath to Durant, and Durant nods as Pansy signs the clipboard with the pen the witch hands her.

Durant follows the witch out into the hall, asking her about the details on the order. She's enjoying the gruff tones in Durant's voice as he gets not much more than sass back.

Pansy pokes one pristine white rose with a finger. "They don't seem to be biting roses, that's a mercy," she quips, trying for a laugh but getting stunned silence from her team members. Draco's eyes are enormous, and Blaise is sitting up very straight. Everyone has their hand on their wands.

"Tony?" Draco asks her, and he's on his feet, moving towards her. 

"I don't think so," Pansy says, her throat tight. "His family has money, but not this kind of money." These are perfect roses, each one beautifully formed, their heady scent hanging heavy in the air. "Someone spent a fortune on these, and that's not Tony's style." Tony would have given her something less dramatic, less bombastic, less public. Something whose meaning would only be recognisable to the two of them. 

Not this.

Draco touches the small of her back. "Who then?"

"I don't know," Pansy starts to say, but she spies the card, tucked deep within the arrangement of soft white petals and glossy green leaves. She reaches in, among the beautifully lush, perfectly tight but blooming stems, pricking her finger on a thorn, and pulls out a roll of parchment. She puts her finger in her mouth, sucks away the bitter tang of blood. 

When she opens it, coordinate numbers and a short note are written in elegant copperplate.

_Have fun tracking that Russian asshole, doll, and my regards to your lovely sister. With my deepest appreciation for all your hard work, G._

"I think they're from Godunov," Pansy says, quietly. She looks around the room at her team. "And I think he's just given us Dolohov's location."

The note flutters out of her hands and lands on the desk, the black ink of the coordinates stands out starkly against the creamy parchment, a bit of Pansy's blood smeared along the edge.

_41°4′9″N 73°51′35″W_

Pansy looks up, meets Potter's gaze as Durant comes back in. She knows, somehow, that this is right, that she can trust what Godunov's sent her. She doesn't know why. Or how. Or if she's gone bloody round the twist on this one. 

"Dimitri Godunov," Durant says, and he looks at Pansy, his face grim. "He sent the flowers."

Pansy breathes out, picks the note back up, and hands it over to Potter. "We've got Dolohov, guv," she says. 

She hopes she's actually right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, you can subscribe to this fic for chapter updates, or you can subscribe for series updates [here on AO3](http://archiveofourown.org/series/661862) or follow me [on tumblr at femmequixotic!](http://femmequixotic.tumblr.com).
> 
> The last chapter of These Secrets In Me will go up on Sunday, August 6, OMG. \0/ I'm going to take a short posting break (to breathe, because ZOMG posting every week like this is crazy exhausting, lol) before we dive into book 3 later in the month. And for those who haven't heard yet? Well. There'll be a book 4 after that as well because, dammit, there's a shit ton of plot to resolve before we're done with these boys. :D


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the team go up the river, Graves gets a surprise visit, and Blaise doesn't make it to the bar.
> 
>  
> 
> **Chapter warnings for violent spellcasting, injury, a significant familial death (none of our main characters die, so breathe) and grief over that death.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *weeping* You guys, it's really here, the last chapter of book two! I can't believe we've made it this far. I've never written this much at once (over 600K in six months!) and I firmly believe it is because of the awesomeness of your comments and the strength of your love for this project. Thank you so much for caring about this little, stupid cast of characters and these chuckleheaded bozos *eyes Harry and Draco* who can't see past their own flaws, but make something amazing together despite or because of their brokenness.
> 
> AND IT'S NOT OVER!!! There are still TWO books left to go before the tale is complete. The next one will start posting on August 27th to give my team and me a chance to catch our breaths and not burn out before diving into the last half of this series. Writing and editing that many words in six months is...er....a bit exhausting, lololol. But I do promise the next book is coming, so hold on to your hats, my dears. 
> 
> While I'm throwing out a multitude of thank-yous, a million and a half go to sassy-cissa, who always has my back, always sees the continuity issues I don't, and always reads even when I'm writing at the last minute. And another million and a half to noeon who is willing to embrace Seven-Four-Alpha and the Special Branch as a constant in our daily lives and helps me untangle and divine the character motivations and the plot webs even when we're sure we've jossed ourselves. This wouldn't be possible without the team and people to read it, and I thank you all from the bottom of my scribbly little heart!

Seven-Four-Alpha meets the other teams near two o'clock at the designated arrival in a run-down industrial neighbourhood just outside of Tarrytown, New York. Althea and the team are mustered with Boucher, Espinoza, and Durant. Hermione Granger has joined them, as well, neat and trim in her jeans and long-sleeved black t-shirt beneath her stab vest with the white _MACUSA_ printed across the back, just like the ones all of them have been issued, and she, Durant, and the guv are off to one side, conferring. From her position between Parkinson and Malfoy, Althea can see a swathe of dark blue tactical jackets and black stab vests if she looks, and the dark head of Tom Graves rising above the centre of things. They'll have Hit Wizard backup both here and at the site, as well as assistance from the Aurors and Unspeakables. At the moment, Tony Goldstein, Paloma Grimsditch, and Timothy McGillicuddy are standing beside an Explosive Containment Unit along with a scrum of MACUSA Aurors. Parkinson can't stop looking their way.

Althea rubs her palms across her navy twill trousers, suddenly nervous. She always gets flutters in her stomach before tactical missions; she doesn't think she's the only one, judging from the clench of Malfoy's jaw, the way he's rocking back and forth on his heels. He's pulled his hair up into a tight knot at the back of his head, presumably to keep it out of his way if there's a fight. And there will be. Althea's pretty damned certain Antonin Dolohov's not going down without taking a swing or two. Parkinson shifts at her side; like Malfoy and Althea both she's scraped her hair back into a bun, the way they'd all been trained to do years ago. Her heels have been transfigured into more practical running shoes that peek out from the hem of her neatly tailored trousers. Althea doesn't want to admit she finds the whole look bloody attractive. Not that Parkinson would believe her. She's been complaining about the shoes for half an hour now.

"Merlin," Parkinson mutters. "Let's just get this started." She rubs her hands over her face and breathes out before glancing back at Tony fucking Goldstein. Althea tries not to notice. She can't help herself.

"You'll be fine." Malfoy doesn't take his gaze off of Granger, Potter and Durant. His arms are crossed over his stab vest, his shirt a pristine white against the thick, black, enchanted mesh. His hair shines in the sunlight, a bright and glittering blond.

"I'm a lab rat, not a field Auror." Parkinson rolls her shoulders back. "I hate this sort of thing."

And she's worried that something will go wrong, Althea thinks. That Godunov's fucking them over with those coordinates he'd sent Pansy in the bloody enormous bouquet of white roses. A hundred of them--Althea had counted whilst the others had argued with Tom Graves and Tony Goldstein about whether or not they should trust the information. 

In the end they had, and now half the MACUSA DMLE is stood in this filthy alley that stinks of piss and dog shit, waiting for the go signal whilst the intelligence Aurors do one more sweep of the area that they've already pinpointed as having an abnormally high amount of magical activity and warding. There's a two-warehouse stretch a few streets over that's hot in the readings; they'd managed to determine that remotely from Manhattan, and Althea doesn't want to admit she's impressed by the Americans' tracking spells, but she is. She wonders if Durant could get Graves to share that magical tech, or at least the theory behind it. Fuck, but it would have made some of the potions busts she's been on a hell of a lot easier. 

And that thought stings, bringing up memories of the last time she was on a tactical team, Marcus Wrightson crouched beside her, giving out the orders. A twist of grief goes through Althea. She wonders if they've buried him yet, if the body's even been released to Marcus's family. It's barely been thirteen days--not even quite yet--since she'd walked into those holding cells and found them all dead. 

Fuck, but Althea feels as if her whole bloody life's been upended in less than two weeks. She looks away, trying to pull herself back together. 

The landscape here in the Hudson River Valley is lovely, but this corner is nondescript, industrial buildings. Althea'd caught sight of the river earlier, deep and glistening and blue-grey below, as they were making their way across, but it's mostly rock faces and spindly green trees now. The warehouses intelligence are interested in are half a mile or so up the road, less than, probably, although Althea sometimes has problems judging the distances in the States--everything's so much bloody bigger and spread out than Britain. So they're camped in the alley next to an old paint factory, Steubenville Paints by the faded lettering on the side of the squat, metal roofed brick building. The faint scent of chemicals and garbage from a nearby processing plant coats the air, still not hiding the smell of urine, and Althea hunches lower into her tac jacket, trying to escape it.

Zabini's been chatting with a group of Aurors nearby, and he ambles back to join them, his hands shoved in his pockets. There's a faint sheen of sweat on his forehead. It's warm here, but not as terrible as Manhattan, Althea thinks. At least there's a breeze off the river that twists through the alley from time to time. "We shouldn't be too far off from engaging," Zabini says, eyeing his teammates. He rests a hand on Parkinson's arm, calming her a bit. "They've narrowed it down to one warehouse, and they're sweeping the perimeter with an advance team to try to determine how bad the wards are and how many people are inside."

"You should have gone into intelligence," Parkinson remarks, her tone a bit sharply mocking to Althea's ear but she's been around the Slytherins long enough to know it's filled with fondness. They've all got the jitters, so tearing each other apart is the best way to calm themselves down, as far as she can tell.

"Well, somebody has to show some," Zabini says. A movement from the Granger, Potter and Durant grouping catches his eye. "Although it looks like the guv's got news now, too."

Potter walks over to them, his face grim, his shoulders broad and wide in his stab vest, his pale blue shirt stretching beneath the enchanted mesh as he crosses his arms over his chest in an unconscious mimicry of Malfoy's stance. His wand's tucked in the black leather holster belt wrapped around his narrow hips, but he has the snap undone for quick access. Althea reaches down and unobtrusively undoes her own.

"We've got a positive confirmation on Dolohov, Weiss, and Harkaway," Potter tells them. "There are other heavily armed targets in there, and there's definitely a large quantity of explosive and other unknown weaponised magical substances. We're going to have to proceed with extreme caution. The good news is that the bomb sniffers haven't picked up anything immediately ready to detonate, so we shouldn't be blown up right when we enter." He glances at all of them. "But we're not going to use blasting spells unless absolutely necessary. And no sparks or flares for any reason. Use a Patronus instead if you have to, but I'd prefer Auror hand signals if you have a visual with each other."

They all nod, the reality of it sinking in. Althea's done plenty of raids before, but this feels a bit different. She knows it's mostly a British and European target, what with Dolohov and his men involved, but the location makes it strange as does the shared jurisdiction. Also the threat of unknown magical arms around them is not doing anything for her nerves.

"The MACUSA teams are going to take the perimeter and, if they can, bag Harkaway and Weiss." Potter says as Durant comes up behind him, Boucher and Espinoza with him, Granger on their heels. Potter turns slightly to acknowledge them all with a quick nod, but he keeps talking to his team. "Seven-Four-Alpha's target is Dolohov. The Hit Wizards are setting up a blast shield now, and we should be able to move in in about fifteen or so. Weapons teams will be gathering ordnance and neutralising it."

Durant frowns at Boucher and Espinoza, then at the rest of the group. "We're support on this one, but we've got to stay nimble," he says. "There'll be a hell of a lot of people going in, and we need to stay out of the way of the weapons experts. We're going to have to break into threes. Hermione, do you want to do the honours?" He turns to Granger.

Granger flicks her wand, and what looks like a glowing spider web with a moving dot at its centre appears in the air beside her. "I've got a locator tuned to Dolohov that should help us stay focused on his magical signature. Parkinson and Malfoy, you're with me. Whitaker and Zabini, you'll be with Harry. Jake's team are Espinoza and Boucher, of course, but they're going to hold back, if possible, to let one of us get the collar. That'll help us with extradition later. Yeah?"

Another nod goes around the gathered group. 

"Watch out for hazards," Potter says to them all. "If you need help, there's a field medic station here. A reverse Apparate should get you back. Don't try to do anything risky--"

"Other than catch Dolohov, you mean," Parkinson drawls from Althea's left. "Cause that's not the safest collar in the book." They all laugh, a quick, short release of tension. 

"Stay safe, and watch out for the bastard." The guv runs a hand through his hair. "I don't think we'll have any spore issues like we did in Prague," he says, and his gaze shifts to Zabini and then to Malfoy. "But I'd like us to be careful. We know what Dolohov's capable of now, so keep your shields up. Especially you, Draco." Potter's eyes soften a bit around the edges. "What with his history with your dad and all."

Malfoy chews his bottom lip but nods. "I'll be careful." The look they exchange is long, and there's so much depth and worry to it that Althea has to look away. She's not the only one, she realises as she catches Parkinson doing the same. Really, she wonders if they've any clue how obvious their feelings for each other are.

"Right," Potter says, after a moment, and his voice is a bit gruff. "Any questions?"

Althea raises a hand. "Sorry, guv. Why are we doing two operations at once? Why not get Dolohov first or get the weapons?"

Potter nods, shading his eyes with his hand. "It's a good question, Whitaker, and you're right. It's a risk. Hermione, do you want to field that one?"

Granger steps forward. Her curls are pushed back from her face with a taut jersey band that wraps around her whole head. "It's risky to do an extraction within a raid, yes. Still, the problem is that if we get Dolohov without securing the weapons, he could trigger them too easily and blow the entire warehouse. But if we get the weapons first, we'll lose him and the Greenpoint prisoners."

"Is there any overlap in our mandate?" Zabini asks. "Should we prioritise cutting off the weapons or capturing the other prisoners if we're in a better position to do so?" 

Granger shakes her head. "The other teams have their people and their goals, and it's best for us to focus on our objective. We have to get Dolohov. There's really no other way to do it. I know many of us have faced him." To Whitaker's surprise, Granger and Potter nod at each other, as do Zabini, Parkinson, and Malfoy.

"We know he's fast, we know he's ruthless," Potter says. "And he's a seasoned duellist."

"And he's got nonverbal and wandless magic," Granger adds. "I was taking ten potions a day for weeks after finding that out." She winces, her hand going to her ribs. "You don't forget that easily."

Martine Boucher laughs, a sharp, incredulous bark of amusement, and the group turns to look at her as a whole. "Sorry." Boucher's face flushes, and she looks horrified with herself. "But I thought this asshole had been presumed dead for years. Are you telling me you fought this Dolohov as a teenager?"

Durant puts a hand out, as if to quiet his friend. Granger doesn't laugh. She glances over to Potter, who gives her a wry smile, then back to Boucher. "Yeah. I was sixteen at the time. He hit me with his curse when we were battling in the Department of Mysteries. It's something he devised on his own, it seems."

"Mon Dieu, they train you young in Britain," Boucher says wonderingly. 

Parkinson coughs as Malfoy scowls and looks away. Potter's hand brushes his shoulder, but only for a moment. 

"C'est la guerre," Zabini says lightly, but the ring of his words has a hard edge.

"C'est de la folie," Boucher mutters, and Durant shoots her a sharp frown. Boucher holds her hands up, an innocent look on her face, and he shakes his head.

"All right," Durant says. "I think we're going to get the signal. Let's break up into teams, and, well, watch your asses, everyone. We want you all back safe and sound."

Althea thinks privately that's the first sensible thing anyone's said. She swallows, ignoring the hollow feeling in the pit of her stomach, and goes over to huddle with Zabini and the guv.

***

They're moving up towards the warehouse, wands drawn. Pansy's stomach twists and roils. She doesn't like field work. She wants to be back in her lab, with the quiet hum of her testing spells behind her and the safe, careful scratch of her quill against parchment. She's tucked between Draco and Granger, and her wand's slick and heavy, clenched in her hand.

She feels the press of Draco's hand against her hip. "Breathe," he murmurs, and Pansy nods, trying to draw a breath in past her tight windpipe. It doesn't work well, if she's honest, and she thinks of her sister, oddly enough, in her yoga pants and her racerback t-shirt, body bent in a downward dog, telling Pansy just to breathe through it all. The thought aches, deep inside, and Pansy hopes she makes it through this fucking raid. She wants to see Daisy again, wants to take her to Tea and Sympathy for a proper Victoria sandwich before Pansy Portkeys home to London. 

Granger looks back at her. "Everything all right?" she asks, her voice low, and Pansy nods. It will be. She just needs to make it through that rusted metal door in front of them. 

Pansy hears the clipped cadence of Tony's voice from over her shoulder: soft and quiet, but she'd recognise it anywhere. She turns her head; he's behind them, speaking to McGillicuddy as they crouch behind a skip. Tony looks up, almost as if he can feel her gaze on him, and he smiles at her, a lazy, easy curve of his lips that make his dimples deepen. Something hot tightens and twists deep inside of Pansy. He's furious about this morning's roses, she knows, even if they did get MACUSA to this point, but his ire's not directed towards her. Pansy almost feels sorry for Dimitri Godunov. Tony can hold a bloody grudge forever. Pansy ought to know. 

_You okay?_ Tony mouths towards her and she nods. She tucks a stray wisp of her hair back behind her ear. Tony's just watching her now, and Pansy can't help but shiver. She wonders what he's done with the knickers she left by his sink. Circe, she's wishing she hadn't sent him away last night when he'd shown up at her hotel room, looking for a fuck. She'd wanted to tease him, to torment him a bit. Now she's so bloody wound up, she wishes she'd bled of some of this energy with Tony's prick deep inside of her. Even if it is a terrible, awful idea. 

There's a frown on Tony's face now. _Be careful in there, my little lab rat,_ he mouths, and Pansy flips two fingers at him, her lips curling into a smile. Tony winks at her, then turns back to McGillicuddy when he touches Tony's arm, his dark head bending closer. 

Pansy feels a bit more settled now, and she draws in a slow, even breath, then exhales. Draco's looking at her, and she shrugs. "What?"

"That arsehole's bad news," Draco says with a scowl Tony's way. Pansy knows he has a point, but she doesn't care. 

"Turn around and mind your own damn," Pansy murmurs, and she settles her back to Tony herself. She doesn't know how to explain to Draco that she feels better now, the same way he does when he looks over at the guv, standing in the shadows of the warehouse wall, his eyes fixed on the door. 

And then Graves shouts from behind them, and the door implodes in a rush of rusted dust, and this is it.

Pansy doesn't have another moment to think.

***

The trouble starts almost immediately when they're in the warehouse. It's bloody dark--Harry's certain someone--not one of the MACUSA team--has used a Nox or a Deluminator. Not even the Lumos from his wand is really cutting through the thick darkness, and Harry's brilliant at casting that spell at full power. There are muffled voices and shouts all around them. He can see activity somewhere far over to his left, but their main objective is ahead.

"Whitaker," Harry snaps, and he can feel her move beside him. "Zabini?"

"Here, guv." Whitaker's pale face appears in his Lumos, followed by Zabini's darker one. "We're both here."

Harry takes a moment to get his bearings. His eyes are adjusting to the gloom now, and he can see Hermione, Parkinson and Draco to his left. Jake and his team are flanking them on his right. "Hermione, give me a read out on his location?" he calls out. 

The tracking mechanism's glowing a few feet away from him. "To the right," Hermione says, and she starts to move that way, Draco at her heels, Parkinson trailing him. 

And Harry doesn't have to say a word to Whitaker and Zabini. They fall into defensive formation behind Harry, their wands out, Jake's team coming behind them as Hermione leads them deeper into the maze of shelving, boxes stacked four or five high on one side. Harry can see the web of spellwork and light up ahead from Hermione's tracking charm. She stops, then motions to Harry to take a right past a pile of what looks like rusted metal car parts. Hermione dips her wand to the left, and Harry nods, understanding. She wants to cut Dolohov off. 

Harry glances back at Jake to see if he got that. Jake nods and gestures to the next row of shelving, indicating he'll take his team that way. Harry turns back to Zabini and Whitaker, makes the hand signal for them to crouch as they move forward. They do, and Harry leads them forward, slowly, carefully, inching their way through the row of shelves and boxes and abandoned metal towards an open space in the middle of the warehouse floor. 

They've just reached the end of the shelves, and Harry looks back to make certain Whitaker and Zabini are behind him, when it happens. 

A flash of light, sharp and bright, bursts into Harry's peripheral vision, and the crack of Apparition echoes through the empty stretch of the warehouse in front of them. 

"Charazando," Harry hears from his right, and then the spell hits him in his shoulder, and pain shatters through his arm, making him drop his wand. 

"Go, go, go," Harry shouts at Whitaker and Zabini, and they race past him just as the second spell slams into Harry's shoulder, knocking him to the ground in a wave of pure, violent agony that overwhelms him, pushes him down beneath the surface of consciousness. 

Harry can't help but give in.

***

Draco hears Whitaker shouting at him as the burst of purple light flies through the air. She's pointing towards Harry, and Draco almost doesn't understand until the flare of purple hits Harry's shoulder, spinning him around. Harry's eyes are wide, his face shocked, and then he crumples to the floor, and Draco doesn't give a goddamned fuck if he's meant to go after Dolohov.

Instead he sprints across the warehouse floor, running as fast as he ever has, and he sees Durant coming out from behind a wall of boxes, hears Granger calling after him, but all he cares about is Harry, lying sprawled on the concrete floor.

Draco drops to his knees, and there's blood, so much blood pouring out of Harry's shoulder. Draco presses his hands against it, trying to stem the flow, but it doesn't help, and Draco tries to remember what he's been taught about field medicine, but this is Harry lying beneath him, and his face is so slack and his golden skin is greying.

 _Breathe,_ Draco tells himself. _You can't help him if you're panicking._ He inhales, then exhales, stilling his mind the way he's done in his Legilimency training. His heart slows, time lengthens out, and Draco pulls his shaking hands away from Harry's shoulder. Harry's blood is spattered across the white sleeves of Draco's shirt, but he barely notices as he loosens Harry's stab vest, pulling it open, cutting through the thick mesh of the shoulder guard with a careful Diffindo. It only takes Draco a moment to slice away Harry's shirt, and he flinches when he sees the web of cuts spreading across Harry's shoulder, digging deeper into Harry's flesh, blood welling out between the flaps of skin. The spell's working its way over to Harry's collarbone, and Draco knows he has to stop it. 

Harry's eyes flutter open for a moment, and he's looking up at Draco, and Draco can feel the pain shuddering through Harry. "It's fine," Draco says to him, and he puts every ounce of certainty he has into those words. "You're just a reckless arsehole, aren't you?"

"Sorry," Harry chokes out, and Draco tries to smile down at him, but it's so bloody hard. Draco's wand is out, and he's managed to cast a shielding charm over them both. 

Draco does the only thing he can. He pushes into Harry's mind, feeling the terrible agony wrack through his own body, but it doesn't deter him. Deeper he goes, pushing, pushing, pushing into Harry's mind, smoothing over the jagged shards of the pain. He sees images fly past him. Draco watching Harry, Durant and Harry laughing, Granger and Weasley amongst a group of gingers that must be Weasley's family, the Dark Lord's robe swirling, the Morsmordre hanging above a London sky. Draco doesn't care about any of them, not even the memory of himself as an eleven-year-old in Madame Malkin's turning to speak to Harry for the first time. 

Until he reaches an old, old, old memory, faded and almost greyed around the edges, of a woman, younger than him, and she turns, looks at Draco, and her face is kind and her hair is loose and ginger, falling around her shoulders, and the smile she gives him is full of love and gentleness and it makes Draco stop, the pain swirling about them both. 

For a moment he thinks she's Ginny Weasley, but her face is different and when she looks up at Draco, he recognises those bright, sparkling green eyes. 

"Hello," he whispers, and it's madness to think she can hear him, but her eyes wrinkle at the corners, the same way Harry's do, and she tilts her head to one side. 

"Take care of my boy for me," she says, and she reaches out. Her fingers brush Draco's face, and he can feel them, light and soft and warm against his skin. "Please."

And then she's gone, and the pain's back, blazing and knife-edged, and Draco stands in the middle of Harry's mind and he screams, letting his voice rise up into the cacophony of agony that's swamping Harry's body until there's nothing but a quiet, empty silence and the fading echo of Draco's shout. 

When he slides back into his own head, Draco's sat beside Harry in the middle of the warehouse, a battle of spells raging around them, striking the shielding charm, exploding in a shuddering burst. Draco's hands are wet and sticky with Harry's blood, but the cuts have stopped spreading. Harry's limp on the floor, his eyes closed, his head in Draco's lap, but he's breathing.

He's bloody fucking breathing, and that's all Draco gives a damn about.

***

Jake hesitates when he sees Harry fall, and there's part of him that wants to go after him, wants to make certain Harry's all right, but Malfoy's running towards Harry, obviously not caring about the curse that just struck the shelves behind him, barely missing his head. Jake doesn't even think before his wand's sweeping through the air, sending an Expelliarmus towards the spot the purple burst of light had come from. He misses, but he can feel Espinoza and Martine flanking him, and he looks back.

"Ready?" he asks.

Martine's mouth is a thin line. "Let's get that bâtard," she says, and then they're out in the middle of the fray. 

Jake can see Hermione across the warehouse, Blaise and Parkinson and Whitaker beside her, their wands bursting with light, curses and hexes exploding around them. "Alma," he barks. "Keep on Malfoy and Harry. Make sure that Shielding Charm doesn't break."

Espinoza doesn't question, she just wheels off to the side, going towards the spot where Malfoy's bent over Harry's prone body. Jake knows Martine's giving him the side-eye, but she doesn't say anything either. She just follows him across the concrete floor, both of them ducking the hexes that come their way. 

The other teams are deeper into the warehouse, but Jake thinks they've drawn most of the fire out here. Dolohov's wanting to come after Harry's team, Jake's certain, and, like a bloody idiot, Dolohov had put most of his resources on that manoeuvre. 

Blaise goes past him, lithe on his feet, his wand out in a perfect duelling pose, and Jake's almost distracted by the sight of Blaise, whirling on his heel, a uncloaking spell bursting out of his wand, zipping close enough past Jake's face that he could feel the heat of the magic. Jake turns and he catches a glimpse of Zachary Weiss moving out of the shadows, Les Harkaway at his heels. 

"You're welcome," Blaise says with a grin, and then he's off again, tumbling across the floor to avoid another Expulso coming from his left.

Fucking asshole, Jake thinks, laughing, and then he's racing towards Weiss and Harkaway, his wand pointed towards them. "Locomotor Mortis" he shouts, but Harkaway's already moving away, quick and fast, and Weiss is drawing up, a vicious twist to his mouth. 

Jake barely has time to put up a Shielding Charm before the Killing Curse hits.

"Oh, hell, you didn't," Jake yells, and every bit of Thibodaux, Louisiana rises up in him, making him so goddamn angry he could spit. "Pic kee toi, you fucking cochon."

And Jake drops the Shielding Charm long enough to swipe his wand through the air, rough and violent. "Stupefy," he roars, and, just as Weiss starts to cast a violent slashing hex, a burst of red light slams into Weiss, shoving him backwards through the air, the force of Jake's Stupefy dragging the hex back onto Weiss. Red blood splatters through the air, and Jake watches in horror as Weiss's body buckles, falls limp and lifeless to the floor. 

He's running towards him, Martine at his heels. "Jake," she shouts. "Jake, you can't--"

But Jake has to know, has to see. He looks down at Weiss's body, at the slash of red across Weiss's throat. His eyes are already clouding over. 

It's not the first life Jake's taken. 

He hates it every fucking time. 

Jake's on his knees beside Weiss when Martine runs up, and he's trying to save the bastard, trying so hard to keep the blood from spilling from his throat onto the floor. 

"Stop," he shouts at Martine as she tries to pull him away. 

"It's too late, cher," she says, and it's only then that Jake looks down and realises that Zachary Weiss is gone. 

And the battle rages on around them.

***

Blaise sees Jake on his knees, and for a moment his heart stops, certain that Jake's been hit, but then he catches sight of Martine bending over him, of the crumpled body lying in front of them. It takes him a moment to realise it's not one of theirs, and a swell of relief goes through Blaise.

"Your left," Althea shouts at him, and Blaise whirls, casting the Stupefy before he even sees what's coming from him. He misses, but he catches sight of Dolohov above him, jumping from one tall shelving unit to another, Granger running beneath him, her spells striking just beneath Dolohov's booted heels. 

Blaise doesn't know what comes into him, but he's swinging himself up the side of one of the heavy shelving units, climbing up until he's on the top shelf, his boots echoing as he runs down it, chasing after Dolohov. He hears shouts from below, the sharp, high bite of Pansy's voice, telling him to stop being a fucking idiot, but Blaise is in his element here, his heart slamming against his chest. 

Dolohov turns, sends a burst of purple light Blaise's way, and Blaise drops down, barely in time before the curse rushes past him, stirring the collar of his shirt. He pushes himself back up, jumps across to another shelving unit, following Dolohov across the warehouse. They reach the end of the shelves, and Dolohov somersaults off the end, landing on his feet. 

Fucking goddamned hell, Blaise thinks, but he doesn't hold back. He leaps into the air, casting a Cushioning Charm to catch him just before he hits the hard floor. When Blaise stands up, Dolohov's facing him, his wand gripped tightly in his hand. 

"I believe you and I have some unfinished business," Blaise says, staring into the mad eyes of Antonin Dolohov. "You sodding wanker."

Dolohov's cruel face twists in a grimacing approximation of a smile. "Oh. You survived. Pity."

And then they're duelling, and Blaise is casting faster than he ever has, dodging several Unforgivables, blocking a Killing Curse outright, his wand flashing bright in the gloom of the warehouse. Granger's somewhere over there with Althea, and Pansy too, but they can't get anything into the duel, or they might hurt Blaise, he knows.

Dolohov is relentless, swift and merciless, and Blaise's senses go into overdrive, nearly pushing out of his body. There's nothing but light and words, power and force moving in great clouds past him and from his own wand. Something sharp, painful slices into his forearm, grazing it, and he can feel the blood start to well up, but Blaise doesn't falter. He keeps shielding, keeps blocking, and looks for an opening. His body becomes an extension of his wand, mind and mouth casting fluidly in tandem, acting, then reacting.

And Blaise honestly doesn't know if he's going to make it through this one. He's a bloody fool for engaging Dolohov directly, this he knows, and he almost regrets his rashness. Almost. But he also knows that someone has to take this fucker down, and today, that someone is him. And this is too fast--he doesn't have time for regrets. He'll think better of his actions if he survives.

Dolohov leans in, throwing a really nasty slashing hex, and Blaise narrowly steps out of its way, the tail of it whistling past his thigh. He's got his wand across his body, and for a moment, whilst Dolohov's forward, he throws a Stupefy.

To his great surprise, and Dolohov's, it catches him in the face as he extends up to cast again. Dolohov goes over, a Cruciatus skittering off his wand high and to Blaise's left, and Blaise gets the Full Body Bind in at the last moment, hearing Dolohov hit the floor like a bag of cement.

It's over. He's just bagged Antonin Dolohov. Blaise fires off another immobiliser to make sure, and it lifts Dolohov's unmoving body up slightly and drops him back onto the cement with a satisfying thunk. The arsehole is down.

Blaise licks his lips, breathing hard, stretches his arm. He thinks he's okay, but for all he knows, he could be mortally wounded. His forearm stings like a bastard, and there's sweat in his eyes. He wipes it away with his left arm, listening, watching.

The noise of the warehouse rushes back in: Draco shouting healing charms, Granger calling a restraint team for Dolohov, Jake and Martine beside her. She disappears. Pansy and Draco are evacuating Potter with Whitaker's help. The warehouse is full of boots and noise, but there aren't many spells being cast now. Battle ones, at least. Blaise thinks it's over. He's not sure.

And then Jake's in front of him, tall and lean in black tactical gear, his face smudged with dirt, his hair sweaty and limp, hanging in his eyes. He checks Blaise carefully, frowning at his forearm. "Does anything else hurt?"

Blaise shakes his head. He's too tired to say anything. 

Then Jake gives him a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes, and he holds out an arm, pulling Blaise up against him. "Well done," he says. "Let's get you back."

Blaise lets Jake lead him back to the medic to get his arm bandaged, then to the Apparition Point. 

Granger's waiting for them. "Graves is putting Dolohov in one of the MACUSA cells," she says. "With magical dampeners around him."

Jake just nods. "Not a bad idea, all things considered. Did we get Harkaway?"

"No." Granger looks troubled. "He escaped as did most of Dolohov's crew. We've rounded up maybe five of the others, but no one's talking."

"Yet," Jake says. Blaise tends to agree. 

Granger rubs the back of her neck. "We'll see." She looks over at Blaise. "That was some brilliant spellwork," she says. "Harry always told me you were his best duellist."

That makes Blaise feel oddly warm inside. "How's the guv?"

"On his way to Bonavista," Granger says. She has a grim cast to her face. "Malfoy's going to ring me when he knows something." 

And Blaise worries about that. For both of their sake's. "He survived the Dark Lord," Blaise says, his voice aching a bit in the back of his throat. "He'll make it through Dolohov."

"Christ, I hope." Granger runs a hand over her eyes. Jake drapes his arm around her shoulders. 

"Let's get the fuck out of here," he says, and his hand settles on Blaise's shoulder. "I think I need a goddamn bourbon before Tom starts shouting at me." There's an empty look in his eyes that Blaise wishes he could kiss away. 

But he can't, can he? 

Together they go back to Manhattan, battered and exhausted. 

And despite his thrill at bringing down that fucking bastard Dolohov, when Blaise steps back into MACUSA, Jake walking away from him, Blaise has never felt more hollow in his whole bloody life.

***

The first thing Harry's aware of is the pain. It's not unbearable, if he's honest. He's had worse before in the field. But his right shoulder feels as if it's on fire and when he tries to shift, agony explodes through his nerve endings, and he huffs out a weak groan.

"Careful, Mr Potter," a woman's voice says above him, and when Harry's eyes finally flutter open, he sees a round, pale, freckled face with a thick, fiery ginger braid crowning it. He blinks, but everything's still a blur. "You've been knocked around rather a lot today."

"Glasses," Harry croaks out, and the face shifts, then moves back a bit. 

"Sorry," the woman says, and then Harry's glasses are sliding onto his nose. "Better?"

Harry blinks again and the world shifts into focus. A plump, pretty woman in a Healer's robe is looking down at him, her brow furrowed a bit. "Yeah," Harry says, and when he turns his head, Hermione and Ron are beside the bed. 

"Hey," Hermione says, and she looks like she's about to cry. She smoothes his hair back from his head. 

"Where's Draco?" Harry asks. His throat feels so dry and raw. He tries to sit up, but the pain in his shoulder's too much. The Healer moves closer, her hands already behind him, shifting the mattress so it bends up a bit more. "I need--"

"I'm here," Draco says, and when Ron shifts, steps back from the bed Harry sees Draco leaning against the window sill, his hair still bright in the fading evening light, diffused through the thick glass panes. His arms are crossed over his chest, and his face looks terrible, drawn and pale and scored with lines of worry. Harry wants to reach his hand out to him, wants Draco to be by his side, not Ron and Hermione, but a shudder of pain goes through him when he tries to move. 

The Healer rests a hand against his chest, gently pushing him back down against the pillows. Harry catches a glimpse of her Bonavista badge hanging from the collar of her open white robe. "Mr Malfoy's been here since you were brought in," she says, gently. "He's the one who called your friends here. I'm Healer O'Shaughnessy, and I've been taking care of you." Her eyes are bright and blue. "Do you remember what happened?"

Harry licks his lips. "Dolohov hit me with a spell." He remembers that, remembers the bloom of pain and blood across his shoulder, the way Draco had shouted his name, had run for him just before Harry fell, the way Draco had looked down at him, saying words that Harry couldn't quite make out before the pain dragged him under. 

"Two, actually." O'Shaughnessy smiles down at him, and Harry likes her friendly, soft face. "The first one was a Charazando Curse. Hit your shoulder and caused a bit of a mess there." 

"Oh." Harry looks over at the thick white bandage wrapped around his arm and shoulder. It's only then he realises that he's lying in the bed bare-chested, a white sheet tucked up beneath his arms. He tries to remember what a Charazando does. "That's superficial, isn't it?" From what he can recall, it spiderwebs from where it hit, scratching and cutting across the skin.

"Mostly." O'Shaughnessy hesitates. "It went fairly deep, though. This Dolohov guy has a hell of a lot of power behind his casting. He hit you hard, so you'll have a lacework of scars across your shoulder that I'm afraid even dittany won't erase. We did what we could, but it did take you some time to reach us. Still, Mr Malfoy did an amazing job of containing the spell and staunching the bleeding as much as possible, so your blood loss was minimal all things considered."

Harry glances at Draco, who looks away, his arms tightening around himself. Harry can see red stains across the lower sleeves of Draco's white shirt. "I didn't want you to bleed out on me," Draco says, his voice tight. "Bloody sodding stupid arsehole."

And then Hermione squeezes Harry's left hand, the one that doesn't feel numb and useless. "Draco wouldn't leave your side," she murmurs. "Not even in the thick of it all." 

Something soft and hot unfurls inside of Harry's chest. He can't look away from the sharp angle of Draco's turned-away face, the hunch of Draco's tight shoulders. 

"The second curse," O'Shaughnessy's saying, "we're not certain of. We think it might be something your assailant developed himself, although Ms Granger has assured us that you and she have survived it in the past. However, it did do a great deal of internal damage to the joint and ligaments of your shoulder, as well as the muscles of your upper arm. You'll be on potions for a week or two, and your use of your right arm will be reduced during that time, but the worst pain should fade in the next ten to fourteen hours." O'Shaughnessy looks down at him, and there's a small furrow between her perfectly shaped brows. "I'll be keeping you overnight, though, to make certain of that before we send you off. I'll give you a writeup of your treatment plan to share with your Healers in London--"

At that, Harry looks over at Hermione and Ron. "Dolohov--"

"We have him," Hermione says, and a wide, bright smile lights her face. "Zabini brought him down after…" Her gaze slides to Harry's bandaged shoulder. "He's in MACUSA custody for now, but I've started the extradition paperwork. Robards and Croaker are thrilled and actually agreeing on something for once."

"That's great." But Harry's gaze goes to Draco again, and Ron follows it, turning his head to the window before he glances back at Harry, his face thoughtful and sharp. Sometimes Harry thinks Ron sees more than anyone really gives him credit for. 

Particularly Hermione, who's going on to say, "Once it's approved, we'll be going back. We'll need a secure Portkey transport, of course, but I'm sure that won't be a problem--"

"Love." Ron cuts her off. "I'm sure the Healer wants us out of here soon."

O'Shaughnessy glances down at her watch. "Visiting hours will be ending in a little while," she admits. "And Mr Potter'll need his rest."

"I'm staying." 

They all look towards the window. Draco's pushed himself off the windowsill, and he's looking at O'Shaughnessy, his mouth a thin, tight line. "Harry's my partner--"

"There needs to be a familial relationship," O'Shaughnessy starts to say. 

"I don't have any family," Harry says, but he's watching Draco, his breath catching at the way Draco's hair falls forward when his head dips, a sweep of soft gilt against his pale cheek.

And then Draco's eyes are on Harry, cool and grey and bright, and there's something raw and vulnerable in Draco's gaze. "You have me," Draco says, and it's as if they're the only two in the room at the moment. Harry can feel the quiet thump of his heart. "He's my boyfriend," Draco says to O'Shaughnessy, "and I'm staying with him tonight."

The room's silent, and Christ, Harry wants to reach out for Draco, to pull him down beside him. Harry thinks Hermione wants to protest, but Ron touches her arm and she falls silent.

"Well," O'Shaughnessy says after a moment. She eyes Harry who just gives her an even look in return. "I'm certain we can make arrangements for that if Mr Potter doesn't object."

"I'd like Draco to be here," Harry says. His throat still hurts a little. Draco stands at the foot of Harry's bed, awkward and uncertain and so bloody, achingly beautiful, and Harry can't tear his gaze away from him. 

O'Shaughnessy nods. "I expect you'll be released by mid-morning." She hesitates, looks between them. "You'll be monitored throughout the night," she says finally. "To see how the potions are working, if the pain's going away." 

Harry plucks at the sheet with his good hand. He wants them all to go away, wants to be left alone with Draco, wants to be able to hold him if he can, to wipe that terrible expression off his face. 

"All right." O'Shaughnessy picks up the chart hanging from the foot of Harry's bed and makes a few notes in it. The room's quiet, except for the scratch of her quill against the parchment. She flips the chart closed, settles it back in its place before tucking her quill away. "I'll see you in a few hours then, Mr Potter."

And with a nod, she's gone. Harry looks around him. The room's small with just the bed and an uncomfortable looking side chair and a tiny en suite to the side. It's completely different from the long wards in St Mungo's. "I don't think I've ever had a room to myself in hospital," Harry says. "They usually just throw me on the Auror ward."

Ron eyes the lavender painted walls and the hideous landscape print that hangs opposite. "Not sure this is an upgrade, mate."

"And I'm not certain I like the idea that this is a frequent occurrence for you," Draco says from the end of the bed. His hands are shoved into his trouser pockets, his shoulders tense and tight. 

"Not that frequent." Harry keeps his voice light. He tries to move his right arm, and a shock of pain goes through him, taking his breath away. "Fuck, that hurts."

"You need to stay still," Hermione says. She grips the railing of the bed. "Harry, maybe we should stay as well."

Hell, no, Harry wants to say, but before he can, Ron rests his hand over his wife's. "There's nothing we can do that Malfoy can't," he says, and the look he gives Hermione is even and firm. "Besides, it's more his place than ours." Ron glances over at Draco. "Like the Ferret says, he's Harry's partner."

A pink flush stains Draco's cheeks, and his mouth works a bit before he says, "I'm sure we can arrange for you to come back later tonight."

"No." They all turn to Harry in surprise. Hermione looks a bit hurt, but Harry doesn't care. He's in pain, and he's tired, and he just wants some time with his boyfriend, for fuck's sake. Still, he doesn't want to be a complete prick about it. He chews on his bottom lip before he adds, "I'd rather be with Draco tonight. If you two don't mind."

Ron's face softens, and he looks between Harry and Draco. "Sure," he says. "Hermione has to finish that paperwork anyway, don't you, love?"

Hermione presses her lips together. Harry knows she wants to argue, but Ron's hand settles on the small of her back, and Harry can tell when she lets go by the faint slump of her shoulders. She turns to Draco. "If anything happens--"

"I'll ring your mobile immediately," Draco says, and he rubs his palm against his forearm as he looks over at Harry. "He'll be fine, though. A wanker like him always lands on his feet."

And the gentle tone in his voice makes Harry's heart flip. Draco smiles faintly, and Harry can't look away from him. "I try," he says more jauntily than he feels. 

Harry barely notices when Ron and Hermione leave, even though Hermione leans over his bed and kisses his cheek. All he can do is watch Draco as he stands stiff and pained at the end of the bed, nodding to Ron and Hermione as they walk out. 

The room feels different when Harry and Draco are alone. Closer, perhaps, and yet filled with a strange, discordant distance that it takes Harry a moment to understand. 

"You're shutting me out," Harry says, his voice quiet. "I can practically feel your bloody Occlumens from here."

Draco doesn't look at him. His hand is on the railing of the bed. 

"Hey," Harry says, and Draco glances over at him then. Harry holds out his good hand, awkwardly as it's not his dominant arm. "Come here."

"And if I don't want to?" Draco frowns at him, a bit petulantly. "I'm not interested in being ordered about, Inspector."

Harry keeps his hand stretched out, waiting. It takes a moment, but Draco huffs and gives in, sliding along the side of the bed. He stops next to Harry, letting Harry's hand settle over his. 

"I scared you," Harry says. "Didn't I?"

Draco looks away, but Harry can feel Draco's hand tense beneath his. "I've no idea what you're on about."

Harry rubs a thumb across Draco's knuckles. His shoulder's throbbing, aching deep inside, but Harry ignores it, looking up instead at Draco's pale, shuttered face. "I'm sorry," he says. "I didn't mean to--"

"I'm not a fucking idiot." Draco's voice is sharp and angry, and he tries to pull away, but Harry slides his fingers around Draco's, keeping him still. The look Draco gives Harry is almost scathing, but there's no bite behind it, Harry realises. 

Just an extraordinary amount of fear.

"Draco," Harry says softly, and Draco makes a quiet, muffled noise, and he turns his face away. 

"Please don't." Draco pulls his hand free, steps back from Harry's bed. Harry can tell how much this is costing him, can see how Draco's hands are shaking. Draco turns them palms up, looks down at them. There are splatters of dried blood across his cuffs and sleeves, and Draco rubs a thumb across one of them. "Circe," he whispers. "You bled so fucking much."

Harry watches him. Can't move without his shoulder screaming in agony, and Harry hates that he can't climb out of bed, can't go up to Draco and wrap his arms around him but he thinks he'd pass out from pain if he tried. 

Draco drops his hands, walks back to the window and presses his body against the frame, looking back out the glass. Harry wonders what he sees, if his room looks out on the street or the courtyard in the middle of Bonavista with the large leafy trees and perfectly groomed green grass between smooth concrete pathways. It's odd to him that he remembers what it looks like. He's only been here once, with Jake after he'd been banged about in a raid. They'd been in and out within a few hours though. Not like this.

But nothing he'd experienced with Jake had been like this, had it?

"You've no idea," Draco says after a long moment, "what it felt like to watch you fall." His voice shakes. "You _arsehole._ " His fists clench at his side, and he doesn't look at Harry.

Harry's silent. He knows somehow that he needs to be, that Draco needs this moment, that there aren't any excuses or apologies Harry can make that will change how Draco's feeling. He remembers the clench of his heart when Draco crumpled to the floor of the Crickerly lobby, dark wool cloak and silver-gilt hair spread across the black and white marble. It seems like an eternity ago, but it's been just over five weeks. 

Merlin. 

Draco draws in a ragged breath, presses his palms against the windowsill, bends his head so his hair falls across his cheek. Harry wants to protest, wants to see Draco's face. Needs to, really, but he knows he can't. Instead he watches as Draco's shoulders hunch, his shoulder blades pressing against the taut cotton of his dress shirt. 

"I never wanted this, you know," Draco says, his voice barely a whisper. "It was just supposed to be sex, Harry." He looks at Harry then, his face twisted in anguish. "That's all I meant for it to be, you fucking bastard--" He breaks off, presses his lips together, his throat swallowing the words. 

And Harry has to ask. "What didn't you want?" His heart's in his chest, and he can barely speak. _Please,_ he thinks. He hopes. _Please._

"You." Draco turns, his back to the window, and he's looking at Harry, his face open and exposed, and what Harry sees there takes his breath away. "I didn't want _you._ "

"Draco," Harry manages, and then Draco's walking towards him, and his eyes are bright and hot, and Harry doesn't care how much it hurts, he has to sit up, has to reach for Draco, doesn't give a fuck about the pain that's shuddering through his body because Draco is pushing the bedrail down, leaning over to Harry, his hands in Harry's hair as Draco presses his mouth against Harry's, angry and rough, and the fingers of Harry's left hand are tight on Draco's shoulder, holding him as Harry gives himself up to Draco's kiss.

"I thought you were going to leave me," Draco says against Harry's lips, and there's a soft break in his voice. 

Harry grips him tighter with his good hand. "I wouldn't," he says, his breath a huff across Draco's jaw, and Draco laughs, soft and raw, his forehead pressed against Harry's.

"Liar," Draco whispers. His eyes are closed, and he draws in a harsh, shuddering breath. "He could have killed you."

"Or you." Harry sinks back against the pillows, his shoulder hurting so goddamned badly. He looks up at Draco. "Have you thought about that?"

From the wide blink Harry gets from Draco, he obviously hadn't. "You twat," Harry says, but he drags his left knuckles along Draco's cheek. "How stupid can you be?" 

Draco doesn't say anything for a moment, and then he pulls away, sits on the edge of Harry's hospital bed, a bit gingerly, his back to Harry. 

"I've done something horribly idiotic," Draco says finally. 

"Yeah?" Harry rests his palm against the small of Draco's back, feels the ridge of Draco's spine beneath solid, firm muscle and the soft warmth of Draco's shirt. 

Draco laughs, a rough harsh rattle, and he nods. He looks over his shoulder at Harry, his fingers gripping the edge of the mattress. "I've fallen in love with you," he whispers, and he turns his head away as soon as he does, his whole body tensing. "Go ahead. Laugh at me."

But Harry can't. He wouldn't. "You love me." His stomach's fluttering, his chest feels tight and hot. 

"Idiot that I am." Draco's hair falls forward, brushes the front of his shirt as he tips his head. "I didn't want to say, I didn't think you could love someone like me, with my past, but seeing you fall…." Draco breathes out, falls silent. Harry can only look at him, his heart starting to implode inside of him, feelings slipping out, twisting through him, taking away his breath, and Harry's fingers grasp at the back of Draco's shirt, holding him still, as if he's afraid Draco will run away. "I'm sorry." 

And then Draco looks at Harry, and Harry sees it, that horrible, brilliant, terrifying knot of emotion on Draco's face that mirrors exactly how Harry feels. "I'm sorry," Draco says again, and his voice cracks on the words. "I tried so hard not to love you, and I've ruined--"

"I love you too, you fucking prat," Harry says, and Draco stills. "How could you think I didn't?"

Draco doesn't move. Doesn't speak. Barely breathes. "The Mark--"

"That doesn't mean a goddamned thing to me." Harry reaches up. Touches Draco's cheek. "I should have told you how I felt last night. When my bloody house tried to woo you with a dressing room."

And Draco laughs at that, wet and soft and half-mad. "Perhaps." His hand settles against Harry's; he turns his head, presses his lips against Harry's palm. "How cliche are we? Hospital bed declarations…" A careful shudder goes through him, and he closes his eyes. "Harry, this is ridiculous of us."

"To be in love?" Harry studies Draco's face, smoothes his thumb over Draco's cheek. The stretch reverberates in his other shoulder, makes Harry flinch with pain. "I realised it before we came to New York."

Draco's eyes flutter open. "Me too." He's not smiling though. He looks wrecked. Undone. "I don't want," he starts to say, and then he stops, his lip caught between his teeth. He looks down at Harry. "They'll all hate you for this. The Ministry. Your friends. I'm a bastard--"

"I'm not the fucking saint they want me to be." Harry lets his hand fall to the mattress, his fingers brushing Draco's hip. "And Ron and Hermione know how I feel about you. I don't think they'll be shocked by this."

"More fool they," Draco says softly. "You know it'll go badly."

Harry doesn't care. He feels alive, truly, exultantly alive for the first time in ages. "Do you really love me?" he asks, his voice quiet. His hand curls around Draco's. 

Draco hesitates, and then he nods. 

"I love you," Harry says, and he means every word, each one unpicking a lock that Harry'd never known he'd chained his heart with. All of the clasps fall free, and Harry looks up at Draco, any fears he might have flooded away in wash of pure joy. "I love you, Draco Malfoy. Madly. Hopelessly. Beyond all reason."

He can feel Draco's hand tremble beneath his. "You're an idiot," Draco says.

"But?" Harry smiles up at him, and Draco laughs, then looks away. Harry studies Draco's profile, the way his nose turns up just a tiny bit at the end, the full softness of his bottom lip, the sharp angle of his jaw. Christ, but Draco's beautiful, Harry thinks. More so than Draco realises.

And then Draco looks at Harry, and his face lights up with a wide, slow smile. "I love you too, Harry Potter," he murmurs. "As stupid as it might be, as much as it'll drive my father utterly spare. I think I may have realised I'd fallen in love with you years ago." He brushes his fingertips against Harry's jaw. "When you showed up at the Manor with a swollen, ugly face and beautiful green eyes."

Harry reaches for Draco, pulls him down on the bed beside him. "So much that you'd not sell me out to Voldemort?" He feels Draco shiver against him, but Draco nods. 

"Perhaps." Draco shifts on the bed, settling beside Harry, and Harry winces in pain. Until Draco rests his palm against Harry's sternum. Harry's body twinges, aches, but the twist of agony starts to seep away. "Even then I couldn't bear the thought of you being hurt, although I'd no idea why."

They look at each other, and Harry thinks he could get lost in those stormy grey eyes. Perhaps he already has, he thinks. 

"I don't care," Harry says finally, "what anyone thinks." He rests his head against his stack of pillows. "I love you."

Draco presses a kiss to Harry's forehead. "You might think differently back in London." He's quiet for a moment, and then he says, "This bubble we've lived in here for a week and a half…" He smoothes Harry's hair back. "New York is so very different for us."

Harry sighs, leans into the warmth of Draco's body. He knows Draco's right. It's been magical here, a haven for both of them where they could be open, could walk down the street hand-in-hand with no fear of scandal. Harry doesn't know if they'll be able to do that in London. "It doesn't have to be. We can make London the same. They'll get used to us eventually." 

That earns him a wry smile. "Don't be such a Gryffindor," Draco says. He cards his fingers through Harry's hair, pushing Harry's fringe off Harry's forehead. "You know what people will say."

"You've corrupted me?" Harry asks, and Draco snorts at that. 

"Rather the other way around, not that anyone would believe me." Draco watches him for a long moment. "Does your shoulder hurt terribly?"

Harry knows Draco's trying to change the subject. He thinks about pushing back, about bringing up London again, and the things they might do to have the life they've pretended to live here. But he knows it'll be different. That here they can be Harry and Draco. In London they'll go back to being Potter and Malfoy, with all the baggage and pain and history those names drag along behind them. Harry wishes it could be otherwise. 

But he's no idea how it can be. 

So he breathes out, soft and slow, a gentle huff of warmth through his nose, pressed against Draco's shoulder, and he holds Draco's hand, their fingers entwined. His blood is smeared across Draco's shirt, and how symbolic is that, Harry thinks, that his heart's cruor is clotted in the threads of Draco's sleeve. 

"It's not so terrible," Harry says after a moment. "My shoulder, I mean." He's lying. It hurts, sharp and fierce, a deep, hot, burning pain that doubles with every move Harry makes to give Draco more room on the narrow bed. But Harry won't tell Draco. He couldn't bear Draco to move away, couldn't bear to lose the warmth of Draco's body against Harry's side.

Draco nods, and he presses his face into Harry's hair, his lips brushing Harry's ear. 

"I do love you," Draco says, almost too quietly for Harry to hear. "You impossible twat."

Perhaps that's enough, Harry thinks. For now, at least.

They lie silently together, both of them lost in the other's breath, surrounded by the soft sounds of the hospital around them.

***

Pansy and Blaise stop for enormous coffees at Starbucks on the way into the MACUSA offices. They're both wearing sunglasses, which they don't take off, merely push up as they make their way through the security cordon of the Woolworth building. When asked, Blaise shakes the hand of the witch who's scanning their wands, looking distinctly uncomfortable as she praises his capture of Dolohov, and he mumbles something about it being just his job. Pansy privately thinks he's hungover still, despite several doses of potion last night and this morning. She'd better give him another dose just to be sure--she wonders briefly if she brewed it strong enough this time. She's been a bit distracted this past week and a half, after all, and MACUSA's lab equipment is far more sophisticated than the tetchy shit she has back home, so she'd been more cautious in her brewing.

Then again, people wouldn't stop buying Blaise drinks last night, would they? Blaise's collar of Dolohov is one of the best captures that'd happened this year in New York, and everyone had been celebrating. Even Tom Graves had stopped by for a drink; especially after Greenpoint, MACUSA were glad to have good news. Blaise must've downed ten shots of various colours at the local Auror pub Espinoza and Martine had dragged them and Althea out to when they'd got back from Tarrytown and helping Draco bring Potter to Bonavista. Frankly, it's a good thing Blaise has a champion liver, Pansy thinks, to go with his bloody fantastic duelling skills.

There'd been one notable absence last night: Durant. Well. Most of the night. He'd shown up for a bourbon and then had left, Martine's worried eyes on him the whole time. Pansy purses her lips, watching Blaise press the lift button, the doors sliding shut behind them. Thank Circe no one follows them in. Durant had left last night without saying he was going; he'd just faded away into the throng after toasting Blaise's success, and Blaise had been looking for him to come back the rest of the evening. Pansy'd also been stood up by Tony, the fucking bastard, so she and Blaise had kept watch together, bitching about their useless love lives and then stumbling off to bed--separately, ta ever so--shortly before midnight. 

Pansy'd wanked for another hour straight, thinking of Tony and how impossibly hot it was to watch him in action that day, not to mention how brilliant he looked and felt and tasted in bed with her just three nights past. She'd come hard more than once, spread out naked across her hotel bed, gasping and groaning, her legs trembling, her fingers pressing hard and tight against her clit, but her climaxes had left her feeling a bit too empty, sated but oddly fragile. 

The guv had spent the night in hospital under observation, and Draco'd kept them updated via text about how he was. Stable, it seems, and mostly fine, if in a great deal of pain. Pansy doesn't think they'll come today, but it's possible. Harry bloody Potter's a stubborn fool, and Pansy's sure even Draco won't be able to keep him from the incident room if he's released. 

She leans her head against the side of the lift and sighs. Blaise glances her way. 

"Everything good, old girl?" he asks, and Pansy slides her sunglasses back down, her head aching. 

"It will be if people would shut the fuck up." Pansy rubs at her temple. "How many times are they going to stop you in the hall?"

Blaise just gives her a sideways smile. "Not my fault I'm charming and brilliant."

That just makes her scowl harder at him, and Blaise leans over, nudges her with his shoulder. He's looking more brittle than she'd like him to this morning, and she blames that on Jake sodding Durant. "Wonder how the extradition's going?" he asks, and Pansy glances over at him, the light around his head dimmed by her sunglasses. 

"Granger said it might take a day or two." Pansy's tired, and there's a part of her that's ready to go home, to get back to her flat and her proper cuppas in the morning, and her closet rather than her suitcase. Still, she recognises the wistfulness in Blaise's expression. Durant won't be going back with them when they leave, now will he? She sighs and pushes her sunglasses back up on her head. "You should just shag him, you know. Get that itch out of your system."

Blaise frowns at her. "I'm sure I've no idea what you're talking about."

"I bet you don't." Pansy makes a face at him, and Blaise looks away. "You're both being ridiculous. It's just sex--"

"Pans." Blaise still isn't looking at her. "Let's not talk about it, all right?"

And that makes Pansy want to find Jake Durant and rip his bloody heart out of his chest with her bare hands. She falls silent, then nods, her throat hurting a bit. The lift clocks another floor, then one more before jolting to a stop, fourteen a bright red in the display. The doors slide open, and Pansy steps out. 

She glances behind her. "I don't like the way he makes you feel," Pansy says quietly. "He's an arsehole if he doesn't see how great you are, Blaise."

"I'm a catch," Blaise says with a half-smile, and he drapes his arm around Pansy's white cardiganed shoulders. "Thanks, love."

Pansy wrinkles her nose. "No need to get soggy about it, Merlin." But she leans her head against his for a moment, before pulling away. She gives him a faint smile. "Incident room?" She doesn't give him a chance to answer; she just heads down the corridor, marvelling that she knows her way around the warren of DMLE rooms after only a week and a half. The halls are oddly quiet for a Wednesday morning; Pansy's starting to suspect they weren't the only Aurors nursing a hangover today.

When Pansy pushes the door to the incident room open, it's empty. Pansy glances around. "First two in this morning, I do believe. Score one for my brilliant hangover potion."

"Wherever shall we sit?" Blaise quips, looking around. They take a seat at the end of the room, pushing together two desks then sipping coffee in silence next to each other. Their companionship reminds Pansy of Hogwarts and sharing the breakfast table after a particularly debauched night. She's missed this, missed Blaise, and thinks they should do this again some time, only without actual hangovers. Blaise rubs his temple with long fingers.

"How badly does your head hurt?" Pansy asks, just as Blaise says, "Do you have any pain potion?" 

She pulls a phial out of her potions case and hands it to him without any further words. 

"Ta. You're the best, Pans." Blaise downs it gratefully, following it with a chaser of iced latte.

Pansy takes a swig herself from another phial. Thank Merlin they'd not gone out much before now, she thinks. This past evening's depleted her supply something fierce and she doesn't know if she'll have time to brew until they're back in London.

Althea slinks in next, five minutes after Pansy and Blaise, a coffee the size of her head clutched in her hands. She gives them a slightly baleful look. "And here I thought I'd beat you lot in." She yawns, but she doesn't look hungover. Then again, she'd spent most of the night drinking tonic water, so Pansy doesn't know what she expects. 

"Not a chance, darling." Pansy pats the desk on her other side. "Come sit, but keep your voice down, please. I don't want to sick up on anyone right now."

"I'll keep that in mind." Althea drops in the seat next to Pansy, a little too loudly for Pansy's still-aching head.

And then Durant comes in, quiet and withdrawn, his hands pushed into his close-tailored trouser pockets. He's pin-neat today in a pink button-down Oxford, shiny Italian loafers on his long feet--Pansy can feel Blaise stir next to her and she wishes her old friend weren't so obviously interested in this well-dressed slab of Unspeakable muscle in front of them. Pansy'd spent most of the night hearing Blaise complain about what a bloody _cocktease_ Durant was, and how he must have an arse tighter than a Niffler holding gold, the way he was acting. Now without even turning her head to look--she's not going to give herself a headache for love or mercy--she can feel Blaise's prick standing up to attention. 

_Men_ , Pansy thinks, _so apparently independent and yet so tethered to their cocks_ , and she suppresses the urge to swat Blaise. She'd warned him of this after their eighth round last night, although she's well aware she hasn't a leg to stand on given her own behaviour around Tony.

"How was last night?" Durant asks, rather more loudly than he needs to in Pansy's opinion.

Blaise straightens up his posture, but Pansy stays slumped near her coffee. Althea just waves her hand at Durant. Cow. Lucy had been at the pub last night. Pansy wonders if Althea'd taken her back to the hotel. She hadn't seen Althea when she and Blaise had finally left, that's for damned certain. Honestly, Pansy doesn't know why the idea of Althea shagging that ridiculous girl irritates her so much. Probably because she hadn't had anything other than her own hand last night, and that's not bloody fair. 

"Well, we thought we should live up to our Slytherin reputations for debauchery," Pansy says. "But Merlin, I'm impressed at how much you Yanks can drink." And then Pansy does turn her head, regretting the motion almost immediately. The pain potion's kicking in, though, so her discomfort is more of a dull flare in the nerves of her eyes than the roar it had been previously. "Where're Alma and Martine, though?"

"Don't worry." Durant huffs a quick laugh. "They're in the office, but coming over here a bit late. They're checking on the paperwork trails. Ilvermorny's dragging their heels, of course, despite the subpoena--"

"Shocking," Blaise says from Pansy's other side, and Durant gives him a quick, unhappy look before Blaise glances away.

Durant leans on the edge of a desk, rubbing the back of his head. "Anyway, Alma found something from immigration that looks promising on Harkaway's mother. Astrid's her first name, that much we've discovered, and the step-father's Armand, but Alma thinks she can get Astrid Harkaway's maiden name by tracking down a No-Maj marriage license, since we've got nothing for Astrid or Armand listed in MACUSA." He frowns. "That's a fucking lot of A-names." 

Pansy bites back a snort.

Blaise leans forward, his interest piqued. "Is Armand Harkaway Muggleborn?"

"No." Durant glances his way. "His thrice-great grandfather was a MACUSA president, back when we were located in Virginia."

Althea raises an eyebrow. "So why a Muggle wedding then?"

Durant shrugs his shoulders. "Has to be that or something registered overseas. Alma figured we'd hit the No-Maj records first."

Pansy tunes out then, hoping that the others will arrive quickly. She wants to be back in her lab and tying up loose ends. She's got only a little bit of time left here in New York and she wants to make the most of it by spending time at her bench on evidence. 

And then Durant shifts, turning his long legs towards Pansy. He sighs, and Pansy intuits then that he has something to say to her. She's also pretty sure she's not going to like it judging from his hesitation. She pushes her sunglasses back up and frowns.

"Out with it, Durant," she says, and her voice is not kind. She's aware of this. She hates the fact that poor Blaise is sat up to attention like a little boy even though he's worth ten of Durant in Pansy's opinion. She hates not knowing when they'll be headed home, but pretty certain Durant won't stop breaking Blaise's heart before they leave with his stupid pining over Potter. Merlin, but it's probably worse now that the guv's spent the night in hospital. With Draco, of course.

"I was going to announce it in the group meeting, but I wanted to give you a heads up." Durant's voice is low, careful, and Althea's watching him with a furrowed brow.

A shiver runs down Pansy's spine. She hasn't done anything to earn his consideration, so the news is most definitely not pleasant. Pansy sets her coffee down carefully. "Okay." She looks his way as Blaise turns towards them as well. "What?"

"The warehouse has been traced, as has the arms shipment and its authorisation." Durant hesitates, his hands folded between his thighs. He looks down at them, then says, "It's owned by your brother-in-law, Eustace Fawley."

Pansy stills. "Eustace." That whiny, pathetic, snivelling shit. She sits up straighter. "Dolohov was using _Eustace's_ warehouse?"

Durant nods. "And he authorised the shipment of weapons, moving them from Brighton Beach the night of the third. Eustace signed off on the transport documents personally." He runs his hand over his hair, then sighs. "Tom's having a team pick him up now."

Pansy does the math, realising that she'd been at Eustace and Daisy's Fourth of July party a scant day after he'd signed off to move the arms upriver for Dolohov. She swears, loudly, colorfully. She's certain they've heard it down the hall. She doesn't fucking care. "That fucking bloody buggering fuckstick buggering arsehole of a shithead!"

Blaise touches her arm gently. "Pans," he says, but she pulls away. 

She's shaking, reaching for her coffee because it's at least something to hold. Althea leans closer to her, settles her hand on her shoulder. "It's okay," Althea murmurs, and Pansy just looks at her, almost blankly. Althea's hand slips away.

"This is unacceptable." Pansy's voice catches. Her fingers dig into the paper cup. "Mother's going to have fucking kittens." Pansy doesn't even want to think about what her father will do. How this will affect him. If the Department of Mysteries had already started investigating his business… Merlin. A chill pierces her heart, and she almost physically crumples. She can't think about that. Not about her father being in trouble. Her mother wouldn't be able to handle that, Pansy's certain. She also can't think about Tony's role in that trouble. Pansy takes a sip of coffee, tries not to gag. Her mind's whirling in circles. "What about my sister? What about Daisy?"

Durant chews on his lip and eyes Blaise over her head. Merlin, she wants to deck them both. She's not some frantic idiot desperate to be coddled. Protected. She wants to _know,_ for fuck's sake. 

"Tell me," Pansy demands, and her voice only shakes a little. She puts the coffee cup down. "Durant--"

"I don't know," Durant says. "I'm not sure she's listed in the warrant, but she'll certainly be questioned."

Pansy presses her knuckles to her mouth, and then she's on her feet, walking to the other end of the room, then turning around to look at them all. "Fuck this day to eternity and back. If this is what one gets for trying to be good, sign me up for the dark side."

"You don't mean that," Althea says calmly, but Pansy does, if only for a fucking moment. Honestly she's done with all of this. She wishes she could just walk up to Dolohov, or who the fuck else is in charge now, and put her name down. Join up with the bastards. If it'd put her back on the side her family's on, she'd do it. Her chest shakes with the effort of not breaking out into sobs.

And then Blaise is walking up to her, putting his arms around her whilst Durant looks supremely uncomfortable and Althea just glances away. 

"It's going to be all right, Pans." Blaise holds her tight. Pansy lays her cheek against his chest. At least she has this. Her fingers twist in Blaise's shirt, holding him tight.

Durant frowns and turns towards the white board, a muscle working in his jaw.

Pansy gloats, even as her world crumples around her. _Stay away from him too, you fucker,_ she thinks. When Durant's head swivels back, she knows he can hear her. _Don't you dare hurt him._

And then the door opens, and Draco walks in, the guv behind him, one arm in a sling and the other splayed across the back of Draco's shirt, their heads bent together, soft smiles on their faces, and Pansy hates them too, hates the happiness that's glowing across both of them, that's warm and bright across the room.

Until Draco looks her way, and his face falls. "Pans," he says, instinctively knowing something's wrong. "What happened?"

"Eustace," Blaise says. "The warehouse we raided belonged to Daisy's fucking Eustace."

And Draco's eyes widen and he leaves Potter's side to move to Pansy's, his arms wrapping around her waist. "Love," he whispers. "Are you all right?"

"I don't know," Pansy says softly. "I really don't." She sends a small, quiet prayer into the ether that Daisy's okay. _Please,_ she thinks. _Just please._

Her two best friends press her between them, their heads bent over hers, holding her up as best they can. 

And, when the tears finally come, Pansy doesn't blink them away.

***

An hour after lunch, and Jake's waiting for Malfoy outside of the interview room. Parkinson's ensconced in the lab again, with Blaise beside her, helping to distract her as best he can, and Jake feels like a complete heel that he'd broken her the way he had. He's never seen Parkinson cry, never watched her fall apart. In fact, he would never have thought she would; Parkinson's tough and bitter and bold, the way a good Auror should be. And it's not that he hadn't known it'd be hard news for her to take, but he hadn't expected to see her crumble in front of him.

To be honest, Jake's still shaken by the whole damned thing. 

And when Harry had drawn Jake and Althea aside, speaking to them in a low voice about what MACUSA knew about Eustace, about what would happen next, Jake'd been surprised. Harry'd never been the careful one, the one who gave space to the grieving members of his team. He'd always expected people to be strong, to not crack. And now here he was, giving Malfoy and Blaise the space to comfort Parkinson the best way they could. 

Maybe, Jake thinks, Harry's not a completely shit SIO any more. 

But life moves on in the Auror world, and Harry'd sent Parkinson and Blaise to the lab and put Althea on the Eustace interview later this afternoon. Not that Jake thinks they'll find anything important out there. But still. It's something to do. 

And now Jake's been tasked with taking on Dolohov, Malfoy by his side. It's not something he's thrilled about, but Graves had insisted that both Legilimens conduct the interview, and when Tom decides he wants that, Tom gets it. Whether or not Jake thinks it's fucking stupid to put Malfoy of all people up against Antonin Dolohov. 

Then again, what the fuck does Jake know? He's only a goddamn Legilimens, after all. 

It doesn't take long before Malfoy's turning the corner with that long, loping gait of his, hair twisted up off his head in a messy knot, his white dress shirt and pale beige linen trousers only slightly wrinkled. Malfoy looks tired, Jake thinks, the shadows beneath his eyes deep and purplish, but there's a calmness to him that wasn't there the day before, a deep, quiet softness to his core that Jake doesn't want to look at too closely. He'd seen the way Malfoy had run towards Harry yesterday, bent over him, his hands pressed against the flow of blood streaming from Harry's shoulder. Not to mention the way Harry and Malfoy had walked into the incident room this morning, as if they were one unit, Harry's left hand resting lightly on the small of Malfoy's back, his other caught up in the sling he'll be wearing for the next week or so. 

"Are you ready for this?" Jake asks Malfoy. He wonders if anyone's made certain Malfoy's all right--Jake doesn't want to watch anyone else fall apart this morning, but he's not giving the orders, is he? Harry's observing with Hermione and Tom Graves next door as well. He's on enough pain potions that the idiot shouldn't be here in the office at all, in Jake's opinion, but Harry's always been bloody fucking stubborn about shit like that. 

Malfoy gives him a faint smile. "Probably not," he says, "but who else is going to do it?"

Jake doesn't know. Whitaker might. She's good in an interrogation, Hermione's said. Or Blaise, but Jake's glad he's not beside him right now. He's feeling complicated things at the moment about Blaise Zabini, and he's not certain about any of them, really. Particularly not now that Dolohov's been caught, and, once the extradition's approved, there's no real reason for Seven-Four-Alpha to stay in New York. 

It's something none of them are really talking about all that much, Jake thinks. He caught the regretful look Alma threw Blaise's way this morning during the team meeting. Jake doesn't want to consider what that might mean, but it'd made his temper flare.

He shifts his file jacket from one arm to the other. "Well." He puts one hand on the doorknob. "I suppose we might as well…."

Malfoy just nods. Waits for Jake to push the door open. 

Antonin Dolohov's sitting at the table, his hands and legs shackled with magical dampeners meant to control his ability to cast nonverbals. It'd been Graves' idea once they'd brought him in and released him from the Full Body Bind Blaise had cast on him. Jake studies him as they walk in, takes stock of Dolohov's cold, dark eyes, his lank black hair. Dolohov's chin is sharp and pointed, even more so than Malfoy's, but perhaps the neatly trimmed beard is making it seem so.

Shayla's the duty officer in the corner of the room, and she stands up when Jake and Malfoy close the door behind them. "Want me to stay?" she asks. Her braids are half up today, the remainder hanging down her back. The look she gives Dolohov is vicious. "He's a bit of a dick, if you ask me."

Jake grins at her. Shayla's always made him feel better. "We'll be all right, thanks."

"Fine," Shayla says. "But I'll be right outside if you need me." She pats her wand holster. "Ready and waiting."

Dolohov's eyes flash at her. "I can smell the Mudblood on you, bitch," he snarls, and Shayla just flips her middle finger at him. 

"And I can smell the crazy on you, asshole." Shayla rolls her eyes at Dolohov, then grimaces at Jake. "Good luck with this one."

Jake thinks about scolding her for winding the suspect up, but fuck if he wouldn't have done the same. Also, she's right. Jake just takes his seat at the table, letting Malfoy slide into the one at his left. He thinks he sees a movement behind the mirrored glass to their right. Probably Graves by now. Maybe Harry too, or Hermione. Hell, half the MACUSA DMLE would probably want to sit in on this one. He glances at Malfoy. The poor bastard's tense, his shoulders drawn up, his hands clenched. 

_Relax,_ Jake sends towards Malfoy. _Jesus. Don't give the fucker anything he can use against you, yeah? We're in control here._

Malfoy makes an attempt to unbend his shoulders some. _That's what you think._

And Dolohov's watching them both through narrowed eyes, assessing them, Jake thinks, like a cobra watches its prey. He knows Malfoy's right. Dolohov's a fucking dangerous shit, but Jake grew up around men like him, hadn't he? And the one thing Jake Durant had learnt in the middle of Thibodaux, Louisiana is that you didn't ever let assholes like Antonin Dolohov see you sweat. 

Jake leans his elbows on the table and smiles at Dolohov, slow and easy, and he enjoys the way it makes Dolohov scowl, sets him on edge. "Hey, Antonin," Jake says. "I can call you Antonin, yeah? We've been chasing you for a few weeks now, so I feel like maybe I know you a bit better than if we'd caught you earlier. How's things? You comfy there?"

Dolohov's lips thin out. "Perfectly so." There's a faint Russian lilt to his voice, less than what Jake expected, if he's honest, a bit more of a British tinge to it. Interesting, Jake thinks, and he wonders how Dolohov got his accent. Nothing in his file says he went to Hogwarts. He's a Durmstrang boy, after all. 

"Shackles aren't too tight, I hope." Jake stretches his legs out a bit, lets one push forward from beneath the side of the table. "Sorry about those, by the way. Just, you know. All those nonverbal curses of yours." Jake flips open his file jacket. "Nasty, aren't they?"

"Only for lesser wizards," Dolohov says with a twist of his mouth. He shifts his hands on the table; the chains binding the magical dampeners together rattle across the scarred wood. "I won't be here for long, you realise."

Jake rather doubts that, and he lets it show on his face before he looks over at Malfoy. "Guess we ought to get started then, if Mr Dolohov's leaving us so soon."

Malfoy's jaw clenches. "I suppose."

Graves has given them carte blanche in this room to do whatever they need, as per Gawain Robards' request. Nothing's being recorded officially, although there's a transcription spell already in place. Jake's known about Seven-Four-Alpha's directive to use whatever force necessary to break Dolohov, but it makes him uncomfortable. Particularly when Malfoy pulls his wand out and sets it on the edge of the table, close to his hand, but quite out of Dolohov's reach. 

_No heroics_ , Jake whispers across Malfoy's consciousness. 

Malfoy doesn't answer. A muscle in his cheek tenses, then flutters. 

"You're being questioned," Jake says after a moment, "under the joint auspices of the MACUSA Department of Magical Law Enforcement and the British Auror Force. I'm Unspeakable Jacob Bouvier Durant, and I'll be assisted by Sergeant Draco Malfoy--"

"I know who the little bastard traitor is," Dolohov says, and the look he gives Malfoy is angry. Sharp. "But he's still Marked, isn't he?" A small smile plays across Dolohov's lips. "Can't ever be rid of that, can you, little dragon? No matter how you try, no matter even if you throw your ancestry away to be a bloody Auror."

Malfoy looks at Dolohov, his face impassive. "Better an Auror than a shit like you." 

Dolohov laughs. "The kitten has claws, does he?" He snaps his teeth at Malfoy; Malfoy only barely hides his flinch. "Pity," Dolohov says, and Jake picks up a whiff of regret, but only faintly. "And Roddy was so hoping you'd be a credit to your family, like the rest of them."

"I'm sure I've no idea what you mean," Malfoy says. His voice stays even. Calm. Good, Jake thinks, but he doesn't send the thought Malfoy's way. Jake lets himself sink back into his chair, giving Malfoy a moment to push forward. He can feel Malfoy's Legilimency shift, press against Dolohov's mind. 

And then it snaps back as Dolohov gives a rough mental shove that even Jake can sense. "Don't try, mamin hvostik." Dolohov's smile widens. "Your tetka trained me too. Mad as a bloody hatter, she was, but a damned fine Occlumens."

Malfoy just raises an eyebrow. "Can't fault me for trying."

Dolohov snorts. "You're a child. Foolish, stupid, simple." He bares his teeth a bit. "About as bloody useful as that shit of a father you were born to. Merlin only knows how he sired you; rumour had it he paid someone to shag your mother--"

"Shut the fuck up," Malfoy says, and Jake can feel Malfoy's temper flare. 

_Calm._ Jake looks over at Malfoy. _Don't let him wind you up._

Malfoy breathes out through his nose, his gaze fixed on Dolohov, who's leaning back in his chair, a sour smirk twisting his face. "So what are you up to, Antonin?" 

"Visiting a few friends." Dolohov examines his fingernails. "I'd no idea that was against the law."

"It is when you're found in a warehouse filled with magical weaponry," Jake says, stepping in. He feels Malfoy relax into his chair. "At least you survived. Zachary Weiss is dead." He watches Dolohov, tries to feel any shift in his mental state at that knowledge. There's nothing. Not even a flicker of surprise. 

"Zachary always was a stupid twat." Dolohov meets Jake's gaze. "Did you expect me to feel any sorrow about that?" 

Dolohov's a cruel and heartless fucker, that's for certain, Jake thinks. He still hasn't been able to get the image of Weiss' lifeless face out of his mind for the past twenty-four hours. He'd barely slept last night as it was. It never gets easier, knowing you took a life. Even from someone like Zachary Weiss.

Malfoy leans forward, his arms on the table. "If you don't care, then why'd you take Weiss when you broke Harkaway out of Greenpoint?"

Dolohov's eyes gleam. "Why do I do anything, boy?" He studies Malfoy. "Maybe I just fucking wanted to."

"I don't think that's true," Malfoy says. He doesn't look away from Dolohov's sharp gaze. "I think you wanted him for something. Or someone did."

"He's dead now," Dolohov says. His mouth quirks up on one side, and Jake can't help the uneasy feeling that rumbles through him. "So it doesn't matter. Not really."

"Les Harkaway then." Jake rests one elbow on the file jacket with what little they know of Harkaway in it. "The Old Man's grandson."

"Him," Dolohov said, with a feral, vicious grin, "Him, I wanted." 

Malfoy raises an eyebrow. Jake can almost sense the quickening of Malfoy's breath. "Why?"

Dolohov clucks softly. "That would be telling."

And Malfoy tries to push again against Dolohov's defences. Jake helps, trying out a careful shove to see if he can make the bastard crack, but Dolohov's Occlumens is shored up, deep and strong and settled in his mind. Dolohov just folds his hands over his flat belly and watches them, letting them seep just enough into his mind to make them both think they've found the right crack, and then slamming them back out so hard that Jake feels a headache start to form in the back of his mind. 

"Just as fucking nosy as your damned father," Dolohov says. "And twice as stupid, evidently." 

"The Hand of Glory," Jake says, trying to draw Dolohov's attention. "Where is it?"

Dolohov shrugs. "Gone." There's a faint curve to his mouth that makes Jake certain he's lying. "You're Edward's brother, aren't you?"

Jake doesn't answer, and Dolohov's smile widens. "That bastard's good as dead, you know. Sold me a defective product--"

"He told you the goddamn Hand had to cure," Jake says, and he doesn't know why he's defending his brother to this asshole, but it's Eddie, for Christ's sake, and Jake's not going to let Antonin Dolohov be a prick to Ed's good--well, to Ed's name. "You didn't wait--"

"He'll still die." Dolohov's too calm, Jake thinks. He's like a man who's certain he'll be freed any moment. "Stupid, fucking bastard--"

The sound of a hand striking flesh echoes through the room. Malfoy's on his feet, and a loose lock of his hair slips free from its knot, falling in his face as he breathes out, his hand shaking as it falls back from Dolohov's surprised face. There's a smear of blood across his knuckles, and a matching streak on Dolohov's mouth. 

Jake stares at him in bewilderment for a long moment. That wasn't something he expected, if he's honest. Not that he doesn't blame Malfoy, but lashing out over Eddie's something Jake would do.

Malfoy must catch a wave of Jake's thoughts; he glances at him. "I like Eddie," he manages to get out before he turns back to Dolohov. "So you can fuck off, Antonin--"

"Sit the fuck down," Jake says, gaining his powers of speech again, and Malfoy sinks back into his chair, looking shocked with himself. Frankly, Jake is too. His gaze flicks towards the mirror--he's certain whoever's watching will be furious with them--then back over at Dolohov. "I've half a mind to walk out of here and let Malfoy do whatever the goddamn fuck he wants with his wand."

Dolohov's nostrils flare. "He might well try. He's as useless as his father--"

Jake can feel Malfoy's mind flying about, wild and unsettled. _Stop._

Malfoy stills. 

_What the goddamn fuck,_ Jake thinks. _What was that?_

Malfoy's silent for a moment, then he sends a small, quiet, _I hate him. And your brother doesn't deserve that shit._

And Jake lets his eyes shift towards Malfoy, careful and warning. _He's getting in your head. Keep him out._

Malfoy just looks away. He exhales, and then he says, "You killed Luka Abadzhiev, cut his hand off, and gave it to Eddie Durant to make a Hand of Glory. Yes?"

Dolohov leans back in his chair. "Are you certain you want to go there, little dragon? Your Papa might be implicated." The look Malfoy gives Dolohov is even. Unflinching. Dolohov laughs, then shrugs. "Luka made a mistake, and he paid for it. Your father made certain of that." His smile is thin and sharp. "Whatever Lucius may have told you, I didn't kill Luka. I just took his hand afterwards. My payment, you might say, for leading him to his punishment. Or did you think your father to be a moral man?" Dolohov's mouth twists to one side. "Never having killed another in his lifetime? What an innocent little dragon you are."

Jake can feel the words twisting inside Malfoy, tiny little fragments burying their way into his soul. "Our forensic evidence would say otherwise, Mr Dolohov." He meets the man's gaze. "Your magical signature is all over Luka's body, so forgive me if I call bullshit on your story."

"Believe what you will," Dolohov says with a small shrug. He's still watching Malfoy, and Jake wants to reach over and slam Dolohov's face against the table. "I rather think Draco knows the truth." He sits up, his elbows on the table. "There's so much you don't know, little dragon. About your family's place in all of this. I would tell you, of course, but…" He holds his palms up. "I rather think you'd tattle on us all." His smile is mocking. "Wouldn't you?"

Malfoy's face is so damn pale, save for the faint pink flush that's rising on his cheeks. His jaw clenches, and Jake sends a rush of calm cooling energy his way, pushing it through the faint cracks in Malfoy's Occlumens. "You're not wrong," Malfoy says finally. "But you could tell me anyway."

Dolohov's laugh is rough and loud. "I like my life a bit too much for that." 

And that's interesting, Jake thinks. He raises an eyebrow, presses his steepled fingers to his mouth before saying, "Then there's someone you're afraid of. Someone running things behind you." At Dolohov's sharp look, Jake smiles. "You're not the mastermind of any of this, are you Antonin? We're looking at something far deeper than you're idiocy. Not that I'm surprised by that, really. We've suspected it for a while, haven't we, Malfoy?"

"It's been at the top of our investigation," Malfoy says. "So yes."

Dolohov looks uneasy. Uncomfortable. "Fuck you all," he spits out. "If you think I'm saying a fucking thing--"

"Oh, I don't expect you will." Jake starts gathering his file jackets. "Not at the moment, at least. Although…" He pushes his chair back, stands up. Malfoy follows his lead. "Maybe we'll give you some time to think about that."

Jake turns on his heel and walks out the door, Malfoy right behind him. He hears Dolohov slam his fists against the table, cursing viciously in Russian.

And Jake just grins.

They'll have that bastard yet.

***

Draco rubs his still-smarting hand as he leans against the wall outside of the interview room. They're waiting for Graves, Hermione, and Harry to come out of the observation room down the corridor. Draco belatedly wishes they hadn't seen him strike a prisoner, although he supposes the damage to his reputation can't really be much worse. He's more furious with himself for letting Dolohov get the upper hand, for losing control like that. It reminds him so much of being taunted back in the last years of the War, by those fucking bastards in their fucking silver masks, and he reacts like a caged beast every time.

"Well, that could've gone better," Draco says dryly to Durant, who's lost in his own fog of thought. Draco gets a fragment of Pansy's stricken face drifting from Durant's mind, and he's suddenly worried. He knows Althea and Blaise will take care of her, but she'd looked so raw when he'd walked into the incident room with Harry. As much as she whinges about her family, she's so terribly attached to them, Draco knows, and he wishes he could say the same at the moment about his. He looks over at Durant, trying to take them both back to Dolohov. "Although I suppose Our Antonin's not happy about it either."

Durant huffs out a mirthless laugh, focusing on Draco. "Nah. We got the bastard on the run. It's more than we could have expected, honestly."

Draco's still for a moment, then he says, softly, "I wouldn't care if my father murdered Luka." His eyes dart to the door of the observation room, which remains shut. He doesn't know why he has an urge to tell Durant this, but he has to tell someone, and he thinks Durant might understand. "Is that horrible?"

"No." Durant looks over at him. "But your father didn't. There's no evidence. Dolohov's just fucking with you. He wants to shake you up a bit. Get you off your game. The bastard's good at it." 

"I know." Draco leans his head against the wall. His knot of hair presses into his head, pins digging into his scalp. "He always has been." He glances at Durant. "You don't seem yourself today, if you don't mind me saying."

Durant takes a deep breath, gives Draco a shrug of his broad shoulders, and then he says. "At least you didn't kill anyone in the raid."

"Oh." Draco looks up at Durant then, understanding hitting him. "You're really upset about that, aren't you?" Draco eyes Durant's expression, seeing the traces now. He feels a wave of sympathy. "You shouldn't be, you know. He was coming after you." It won't make it better, Draco thinks, but he needs to say it, needs Durant to hear it.

"Yeah, well." Durant rubs a hand over his face. "He's dead now. Doesn't make it any better."

They're silent for a moment, then Draco says, "I read you completely wrong. Thought you were upset about something else." Someone else, really.

"What did you think it was?" Durant's face has a funny expression and he's half-turned away, like he doesn't want to hear what Draco's going to say, or maybe that he doesn't want Draco to look too closely at him.

"Blaise. Of course." Draco waits a few beats, looking down the hall. Durant says nothing. Draco draws in a slow breath. "I keep catching glimpses of him in your thoughts. You know…" He feels his face warm. Some of those images were pretty damn intimate, Draco thinks. Merlin, but he hopes Durant hasn't seen Harry in Draco's mind. Not today at least. He thinks about what it'd felt like to curl up in the chair beside Harry's bed last night, holding his hand for hours, both of them talking about how they felt. What they wanted. Until they didn't need words any longer. Until the only thing that mattered was the way Harry's hand felt in Draco's.

"Don't," Durant's eyes dart to the observation room. There must be a conversation happening, Draco thinks, else why would they take so long?

"I was just going to say," Draco says in a low tone, "that Blaise's about as into you as I've ever seen him, and I've known him for years. In case you were wondering." Blaise would kill him for saying this, Draco knows, but it has to be done. These two idiots are bloody oblivious, and Draco's tired of it all. He's not above shoving when a good shove's necessary. And when it comes to Blaise and Durant? Merlin. They need a sodding Blasting Charm.

Durant frowns, lips pressed together. "Thanks, Malfoy," he says finally.

He doesn't look quite right, Draco thinks. He's still off-centre somehow.

They're saved from further awkward conversation by the door opening. Granger comes out first, followed by Graves and then Harry.

"No hitting suspects, Malfoy." Graves scowls at him. "For fuck's sake, there are still rules, you know."

Draco tries to keep the sour expression off his face. He probably fails, given the amused look on Harry's face, but luckily Graves turns to Durant. "And, you. Asshole. What's this about slicing a suspect open, Jacob, when your explicit orders were to subdue and fucking capture?"

Durant coughs, casts his eyes to the floor. Draco feels sorry for him. "It was just a fucking Stupefy," he mutters. Granger looks embarrassed. Harry just leans against the wall beside Draco, nudging him with his elbow. He gives Draco a small smile. 

Graves' nostrils flare. "And yet, a family are going to have to come into collect a body for burial. Jesus, Jake. If you don't think the _New York Ghost_ isn't going to print this story, you're sadly mistaken. They've been sniffing around us for weeks, and you just gave them a bullseye." Graves isn't smiling. At all. "You both really want me to have to face excessive force charges, don't you?" He glares at them, arms crossed over his chest. "Fucking bastards."

"Sorry, sir," Draco says, and Durant grunts something similarly apologetic next to him.

Draco's not sorry, not really. Granger's frowning, watching the Director. Harry's still smiling at Draco, but he's high on potions, so Draco doesn't count that for anything. But Draco shoots him a quick smile nonetheless. Bloody Gryffindor idiot. Harry shouldn't even be here. Draco knows he's still in worse pain than he'd admit to the Healers, but Harry wouldn't even hear going back to the hotel to rest.

Graves turns his attention back to Draco. "Malfoy, walk with me." 

Draco looks at Granger, who makes shooing motions. Harry nods and flashes him a broad smile. Durant doesn't even acknowledge any of them; he just turns and strides away, back towards the DMLE bullpen. With a sigh, Draco follows the tall form of the Director down the hall.

"Have you enjoyed working with us, Malfoy?" Graves asks when they turn the corner towards his office. He's not looking at Draco, hasn't been the entire time they've walked this way.

"Yes, sir." It's the truth, Draco thinks. He has enjoyed policing in a different context, being anonymous, having the chance to learn something about Legilimency. He can't believe it's not even been a fortnight--it feels like a lifetime.

"And have you thought about my little offer?" Graves takes a stack of post from Angelica as they pass by, then ushers Draco into his office and closes the door with a flick of his finger. He sifts through the thick letters and puts a parcel to one side, then opens a red-edged envelope, frowning at its contents.

Draco sits down in the chair Graves shows him and settles in before answering. "Sir, I believe I made my position perfectly clear. I'm going back to London with Harry."

"Ah yes. With Harry." Graves drops into his large leather chair and steeples his fingers. "How do you think this ends, Malfoy?"

"I beg your pardon." Draco is caught off guard. He was expecting more opposition, and he's not entirely sure what Graves means. "How what ends, sir?"

Graves waves a hand in his direction. "This thing you have with Potter." His lip curls. "Your affaire de coeur." The way he says it sounds sleazy. Dirty. Draco sinks back into his chair, his face heating. "Surely _you_ don't think you're the type to get the hero in the end, do you?"

Something inside of Draco crumples. As much as he tries not to let Graves' words affect him, they cut into his very marrow. Graves is echoing the secret worries of Draco's heart, and it's devastating to have one of his most persistent, most terrible fears spoken out loud. Draco swallows, throat thick. "I suppose I hadn't given it much thought," he says as defiantly as he can. "Sir."

The look Graves gives him tells Draco that they both know he's a liar.

"Malfoy, I'm prepared to let you come back," Graves says finally. "When it all crashes down--and mark my words, boy, it will--remember that I offered you something you didn't need at the time. It may be all you have later."

Draco shifts uncomfortably in his chair, not sure how to end this conversation but desperately needing to leave the room. Now. Before he gives in to Graves' relentless negativity. And when did Draco become an optimist, he wonders. How did he open himself so totally to something so hopeless, so fateful, so bloody doomed as loving Harry Potter?

A knock comes at the door, Graves looks irritably. "Angelica, I said--" He swallows his words as the door opens.

Draco sits up, looking at the door in interest. He doesn't know who had that effect on the Director of Magical Security, but it's surely someone important.

Samuel Quahog, the President of the Magical United States--and Draco only recognises him from the occasional photo in the _Prophet_ and the painting in the central MACUSA lobby downstairs--comes into the room, tall and broad-shouldered, with perfectly coiffed brown hair and a bespoke suit. He's followed by an older wizard who glances at Draco. Draco has no idea who that man is, but the lines of his face are terribly familiar.

"Tom, sorry to bother you," Quahog says. "But I was wondering if I might have a moment of your time. Aldric wanted to talk to you about something."

Graves stands and shakes the President's hand. "No worries, Sam. I was just finishing up with our British Auror partner here. I can always put you and Aldric on my schedule." The look he gives the older man is almost sycophantic. "If you'll excuse us, Sergeant Malfoy. Aldric's one of America's finest businessmen."

"And my top financial donor," Quahog says, a bit too heartily. He claps the older man on the shoulder. "Wouldn't have won the last election without him. Would I?"

The older gentleman laughs and nods, but he's looking at Draco now with curiosity. "Ah, a Malfoy. Of course. You look just like Lucius did at your age." He tilts his head. "Draco was it? I'm afraid it's been many, many years since I last…" He hesitates, then says, a small smile playing across his mouth, "Took tea, so to speak, at the Manor. You were still in your pram. Your family and mine had, shall we say, a mutual friend."

Draco stands and bows, hearing the British inflection behind the acquired flat nasality of American cadence in the older wizard's speech. "At your service, sir. And you are?" All his senses are on high alert. 

The older gentleman's smile widens, sharpens, becomes more feral. A shiver runs down Draco's spine. "Aldric Yaxley." He looks a bit annoyed. "But I'm terribly afraid you might have heard me called the Old Man in recent days. Or so I've been informed." His frown deepens. "Youth these days. Such disrespect for their elders, wouldn't you say, Samuel?"

"Without a doubt, Aldric." The look Quahog sweeps across Draco is considering.

Graves' mouth is agape, and really, if Draco weren't so fucking impressed by this wizard who definitely knows his parents and whom Draco would bet good money had been seriously active in the first Wizarding War, Draco would clap the old bastard on the back for tongue-tying Tom Graves.

"I knew a Yaxley once," Draco says before he can stop himself. "Corban."

Yaxley stills, then looks over at Draco. "There were many of us, lad. Once. But now I'm an old man." His eyes are cold. Almost angry. Draco flinches away. "You'll understand, I'm sure. One day." Yaxley turns back to Graves. "Now, I believe you're looking for my grandson, Mr Graves. Les Harkaway?"

"Yes." Graves looks gobsmacked. "We didn't know…" He trails off, then coughs. "Your grandson escaped from a secure facility. Sir. One at which a Morsmordre was cast."

Yaxley inclines his head. "And I'm here to ask for a certain amount of leniency, Director Graves. Samuel here assures me you'd be more than willing to allow my family to deal with Les as we see fit rather than…" He swirls his hand in the air. "Well. It does make for quite a sticky situation for us all, doesn't it? Particularly Samuel. The elections come so quickly, don't they?"

"Tom," Quahog says, and he shoots a pointed look Draco's way. 

"Malfoy." Graves doesn't even glance at him. "Get the fuck out."

Draco doesn't have to be told twice. "So nice to meet you, Mr Yaxley." It's a lie and they both know it.

Yaxley shakes Draco's hand with an amused smile. "And you, Sergeant Malfoy. Please do give my regards to your mother. I'm still so very fond of the Manor's Battenberg cake. I dream of it still."

Draco bets he does. Amongst other things. Like bloody fucking Dark Lords.

"I will, sir." Draco nods, glances over at Graves. "Thank you. President Quahog, Director Graves."

After taking his leave, Draco turns and walks out of the room. It's only as the door closes behind him and he's staring into the stunned face of Graves' assistant Angelica that he lets himself feel the shock. He'd thought this day couldn't get any stranger, but he was wrong.

What the fuck had he just witnessed?

Draco breathes out, straightens the cuffs of his sleeves. He has to find Harry, he thinks. 

Right now.

***

Harry looks over at Hermione. "What do you think?" he asks. They're the only two in the incident room, besides Draco, and Harry's glad of that for now. He doesn't know what to say about what Draco's just told them.

"I don't know." Hermione leans against a desk, gripping it with her fingers. "I'll bring it back to Saul to see if there's anything we can do, but our intel on Aldric Yaxley died up years ago. I think after the first War, he just slipped through the cracks. Once he was gone, he was gone, and there were so many other people to track. He fell off the radar, so to speak."

Draco's leaning against the whiteboard, his thumb pressed against his mouth. "If he came here that'd explain it. You could get lost in America if you wanted."

"He's enough power now to influence Quahog," Harry points out. "Not quite getting lost there."

"But enough that we wouldn't track him," Hermione says. "Malfoy's right about that."

They all exchange a long, troubled glance. Harry rubs the back of his neck and swears, pacing past Hermione's desk and Draco's whiteboard. 

"So what do we do?" Harry asks finally. "We have Dolohov. Yaxley's not in our purview. Not right now at least."

"And there's jurisdictional issue, as well," Draco says. "I can tell you just from what I saw in Graves' office, if we tried to go after Aldric Yaxley, it would cause an incident." He frowns. "A bloody big one."

Hermione nods. "We can't get involved in American politics, Harry. We can't. Not without a hell of a lot more authorisation than we have right now."

Fuck. Harry knows they're right. He does. But every Auror instinct he has in him is screaming at him to look at Yaxley. To follow some trail that he's certain is there. What it is, he's no idea. What it'll lead to, he's not certain he wants to know. He looks at Hermione. "You'll bring it to Croaker though."

"I'll do my best." Hermione bites her lip. "He may tell me to let it go."

Harry sighs. "I'll talk to Jake at Tabac tonight. You're coming, right?" He looks over at Hermione. "For drinks."

"With Ron, yeah." She starts to gather her file jackets. 

"Right." Harry's glad they'll both be there. It's a celebration of sorts for Seven-Four-Alpha and their allies. Their chance to bond over Dolohov's capture, all of them together. "Well, I'll talk to Jake then. Maybe there's something they can do from inside MACUSA."

"Probably not much," Draco says. He looks over at Harry. "Not if the President's in his thrall. Or on his payroll."

"We have to at least try." Harry holds Draco's gaze. "You know that."

Draco looks away. "Fucking bloody Gryffindor," he snaps, but there's a faint smile on his face. 

And, Harry thinks, reaching out for Draco's hand, that's practically praise.

***

It's just gone half six when Blaise finishes buttoning his burgundy striped shirt, then smoothes it into his charcoal tropical weight trousers. He needs to go back to his tailor when they're in London, he thinks. He's getting more muscular from all the training Potter's had them doing the past two months, and it's changing his fit. Andy at Henry Poole & Co will probably scold him, but he'll still manage to figure out how to let out the seams in the right way. Blaise turns experimentally, eyeing his arse in the hotel mirror. It looks good, well-shaped but not too prominent. He'd bloody well give himself a second look, he thinks. Blaise doesn't want to look cheap, even if his mind seems to stay in the gutter these days, especially when he's around Jake sodding Durant.

He hopes Jake will be at Tabac tonight with the rest of the group, hopes he can get him at least to look at Blaise like he used to, joke with him a bit, maybe even banter some. If they're going home to London in the next day or three, maybe Blaise can leave on a nice, flirty note without too much bitterness. Blaise thinks he has it in him to be light-hearted, although he's dying for so much more. But that ship has sailed, Jake's made that much clear, and the sooner Blaise can rein himself and his desires in, the better. Jake had been open enough that anything more than what they'd fallen into was off the table, and Blaise doesn't do pathetic. Not for Jake Durant, not for _anyone._

They're surely going back soon, they have to be now that Dolohov's been bagged, Blaise thinks. He knows he's partially responsible for his own unhappiness, but he refuses to feel any regret. Collaring Dolohov was an all-time career high and no mistake. Blaise is so used to supporting the team from the background, giving everyone else a chance to succeed. He's had to to get his career furthered as a Slytherin, had to show he's a team-player. And yesterday? Circe, but it'd felt so fucking good to just go for it. Even looking back, Blaise knows it was madness to duel Dolohov. But in his bones, he'd known he could take him. And he'd been right. Maybe he'd got lucky too, but Blaise knows he was also in fucking fine duelling form.

So at least they've got tonight and drinks at Tabac, even if Jake hasn't budged on more. Blaise has watched the tension ease between Jake and the guv, especially with how obviously possessive Draco is being about Potter. He has no bloody idea what Jake's waiting for, but it's beyond Blaise's control. He's been a fool, and the sooner he can get home and stop being an idiot about a certain tall, blond, muscular Legilimens, the better.

Blaise spritzes himself with Quercus, just a bit, inhaling the scent of oakmoss and bergamot. His hormones are high tonight--the sexual energy around the guv and Draco has been kicking his body into overdrive apparently. He hasn't had time to wank today, and he wonders if he should take a moment to sit on the edge of the bed and give it a good go before he has to meet the others down at Tabac, but he has his trousers on already, and his shirt tucked in, and really, he'd rather not try to put himself back together after a quick tug. 

Besides, it's fine. Chances are Jake won't show up anyway. He'd blown him off last night, after all. 

He's just about slid his favourite black leather belt through his trouser loops when there's a knock on the door. Blaise fastens the silver buckle, then strides over to the door, not bothering to look through the peephole. It'll be Pans, he thinks, and he's still bloody worried about how fragile she'd looked this afternoon--bloody Eustace Fawley. Although he supposes it could be Draco and the guv at the door, or even Althea if she wants to walk with him down the street to the bar. 

So when Jake Durant looks up at him, one arm stretched up, pressed against the door jamb as he leans into Blaise's space, Blaise can't help but take a step back in surprise, nearly slamming the door in Jake's face out of pure reflex. 

Jake catches it before he can. "Hey," he says, and Blaise blinks at him for a moment. 

"What are you doing here?" Blaise manages to ask. Jake just gives him a half-smile. 

"Thought I'd come by and see you." Jake drops his arm from the door jamb, runs his hand through his rumpled dirty-golden curls. He looks gorgeous in a pair of black jeans that hang low on his hips and a crisp white shirt that he's tucked in, the neck open a few buttons. "Can I come in?"

Oh, and that's an awful idea, Blaise thinks, but he finds himself stepping back, letting Jake Durant into his hotel room with its rumpled bed and the suitcase that's half open on the dresser, his pyjama bottoms spilling out. 

Jake looks around, walks over to the window and takes in the view of the Hudson and the city, stretched up to Midtown and beyond. "Nice," he says. His hands are in his pockets, and he seems nervous, unsettled. 

Blaise closes the door. "So," he says. "You couldn't wait until I came down to Tabac?"

"Not really," Jake says, and when he turns around, there's a look in his eyes that takes Blaise's breath away. "You see, I was at home, doing some thinking." He moves closer to Blaise, and Blaise's stomach flips. 

"About?" Blaise does his best to keep his voice even. He thinks he manages, even though the corner of Jake's eyes wrinkle a bit at him. 

Jake doesn't answer for a moment. Instead he closes the last bit of distance between them. "Lots of things," he says. "Life. Death." His voice catches on that word; his face shifts. Blaise knows he's thinking about Weiss. He shouldn't. It wasn't his fault. But Blaise thinks he understands. And then Jake draws in a slow breath and says, "You going home."

Blaise can't look away from him. "Soon."

"Yeah." Jake's hand settles against Blaise's chest, heavy and warm, his thick fingers splayed open. "So I thought it'd be a fucking goddamn shame if I didn't get to do this again before you left."

"What?" The word's a soft whisper between them. 

"This," Jake murmurs, and then his hand slips up Blaise's chest, curls around the back of Blaise's neck, and Jake's pulling Blaise against him as their mouths meet in a soft, warm kiss that makes Blaise's whole body tremble, his knees nearly giving way. 

Blaise's body wants to melt against Jake's, wants to give in, wants to have Jake take him, up against the wall, and Blaise has to fight to keep control. He's almost horrified at how easily his mouth opens under Jake's, giving Jake's tongue access, how his arms slide over Jake's muscular shoulders, holding on to him for dear life. Blaise wants to wrap himself bodily around this man, and it's only a faint voice of self-preservation that makes him pull away.

"So," Blaise says, his voice rough. He wipes a hand across his mouth, trying to get his bearings. "Now we've done that again." 

Jake's face is soft, his blue eyes dark in the shadows of Blaise's room. "I had so much more in mind than just that. If you're willing, that is. Just this once." His finger strokes along the curve of Blaise's cheek. 

Blaise closes his eyes for a moment at the warm tone in Jake's voice. It goes straight to his cock, and he shivers, trying not to give in too easily. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." Jake shifts closer, and Blaise's blood beats in his throat. He can feel the careful press of Jake's body against his, smell the crisp lemongrass scent of Jake's cologne. "I'd really like to see what you actually look like over me. Or under me." Gently he pushes the image Blaise had shown him, a few nights ago in Tabac itself, of Blaise riding Jake's cock, his head thrown back, his shoulders arched. It's softer focus, not quite explicit, but Blaise recognises it from his fantasies if nothing else. Jake's voice is warm in Blaise's ear. "Maybe both, if you'd like. But just this one night." Jake's hands settle on Blaise's hips.

"I might be able to be persuaded. Just this one night," Blaise echoes, his fingertips following the lines of Jake's strong hands. This feels different than any one night stand he's ever had, and he knows that's what Jake's offering. One night. One fuck. That's all. And Blaise wants it. So badly. Pansy's right. He needs to scratch this itch, to get Jake Durant out of his system before he goes back to London. 

But, Blaise thinks, it's one thing to flirt wildly in a bar, it's another to be here, alone with Jake, contemplating a leap into the abyss. He has a sudden flash of panic, the realisation that they were really doing this, and oh, he hadn't even dared hope and now his stomach's flipping wildly and his nerves are shaky with need. He lifts his chin. Steadies himself. "So," he asks, and he lets his hands shift again, presses them flat against the firmness of Jake's chest. "What were you thinking of doing first?"

Jake nudges in closer, gently leans until his lips are brushing Blaise's temple, his strong fingers tightening on Blaise's hips. "I thought maybe we could start here, maybe make out a little, slow, take the edge off." The softness of his voice raises gooseflesh on Blaise's nape. 

"Not a terrible idea," Blaise says, even though it is. It truly is. He turns his head to look away from Jake, to calm his jangling nerves, although he's already fully hard and his trousers are stretched across his prick. "And then?" He inhales sharply when Jake's fingers catch his jaw, turning Blaise's face back towards his.

Jake's smile is crooked, devastating. "And then we can see what else we want." His thumb strokes across Blaise's bottom lip. Blaise closes his eyes. "If you'd like to."

Blaise's chest is tight--his breath feels like it's coming in gasps already and they've barely touched each other. "Sounds good to me," he says, trying to hard to stay cool and collected. He can't. He swallows, then adds, "All of it, really." He opens his eyes, looking at Jake, letting him see the full force of his desire. 

"Oh, _Jesus,_ Blaise," Jake says, his face flushing, and his mouth is on Blaise's, and Blaise's hands are threaded in Jake's dirty blond curls, tugging, as their lips lock and tongues search. The kiss deepens, grows desperate. Blaise almost mewls with frustration, and Jake crowds him, presses Blaise backwards until his back's up against the wall. 

Jake is being polite still, careful even--Blaise can tell, and it's driving him mad. He wants Jake. Needs him to lose control, to go wild, to take Blaise right here. Right now. So Blaise rubs his prick up against Jake, frotting desperately, sinking his teeth into Jake's neck. He's gratified by an almost-growl from deep in Jake's throat, and the answering shove of Jake's body into his, pinning him against the wall. 

"I thought we were going slow," Jake says, his voice deep and raw and wrecked. 

Blaise has a brief moment of joy at that--Circe, but Jake's going to sound so much worse when Blaise's done with him. "That _was_ slow," Blaise says, pressing his hips insistently. He brushes his mouth across Jake's ear, lets his fingers trail up the plane of Jake's back. "You've no idea how much I want you, do you?"

Jake just shudders against Blaise.

They're not quite of a height--Jake has two inches or so on him and and a hell of a lot more muscle, but their hips line up beautifully like this, and when Blaise rocks forward, his prick nudges the smooth plane of Jake's abs, pressed up against the hard length of Jake's prick. Blaise suddenly wonders how they measure up below the belt as well. He's certainly not small by any stretch of the imagination--or any other body part--but Jake's easy grin and what Blaise has been able to feel through the stretch of his trousers suggest he's hung like a bloody Hippogriff. Or perhaps an Aethonan, Blaise thinks, remembering the press of his palm against Jake's regimental tattoo a week past, the warmth of Jake's skin against his. And again, Blaise wonders what he's bitten on and whether it's more than he can chew.

"Stop fretting," Jake dips his head, kissing Blaise, soft and slow and sweet. "We can do anything you like."

Blaise turns his head, lets Jake nuzzle his neck. It feels amazing, and his body is on fire with want. "Sorry, I'm just." He breathes out, arches himself against Jake. "It's a lot at once."

Jake nods, stepping back and giving him a bit of space. Blaise misses the contact immediately, and the warmth of Jake's long body. "Yeah. I know." Jake runs a thumb across Blaise's cheek. "We can also go meet the others at Tabac if you need some time to think. This isn't a limited offer or anything. It's still good until you leave."

Blaise looks up at Jake, shakes his head, his entire body protesting. "Circe, that's the last thing I want. I mean, I should probably text Draco so he knows I'm not dead, or he'll end up banging on the door in half an hour. But I'd really like to spend tonight with you." He hesitates, then says, " _All_ of tonight."

Jake grins, rubs the back of his neck. "Where's your phone?"

Blaise bends and retrieves his mobile from the nightstand. He flips it open and texts. _W JD in my room. Nt coming. 2 meet u that is. Ha. C u tmrrw. Xx B._ He throws it down on the nightstand again, hoping it sent. He realises there's only one thing left to settle.

"I'm a Veela, by the way." Blaise doesn't really know a tactful way to put it. "I mean, part-Veela. Several generations back, but..." He shrugs. "It still lingers in the bloodline for a while."

When Blaise looks up, Jake has his mouth slightly open, and he's looking a bit thoughtful. "Huh." Jake hasn't stepped away which surprises Blaise. "I dated a Veela once in high school. Three weeks of the wildest sex I've ever had with a girl, actually."

Blaise is not expecting that reaction. He usually doesn't tell people because he's afraid of what they'll say about him, about the stigma of having non-human genetics. His curiosity gets the better of him. "What happened?"

"She found her mate and broke it off. I clearly wasn't her." Jake looks at him, waiting for him to continue. "Last I heard they were living in Northampton, Massachusetts with five cats, three chickens, and a dog, teaching Ilvermorny girls how to yarn-bomb in the summers."

Blaise raises an eyebrow. 

"They're happy," Jake says with a smile. "I envy the hell out of them, actually."

Blaise just shakes his head in amazement. "Anyway. I know you were worried about the power of your Legilimency compelling me, et cetera, et cetera, blah, blah, blah." He waves his hands dismissively. "But I've been trying not to turn any of the Veela stuff on you, and, well, I want you to know about it. So you know you're making a choice." He looks over at Jake. "That's important to me."

Jake smiles, sharp and a little dangerous, just enough to make Blaise's pulse flutter. "Oh, Zabini, I've made my choice. Although, if I'm honest, I don't think I've had any doubt for a while." He cups Blaise's cheek. "Even if I've been lying to myself."

Blaise falters, feeling ridiculously turned on. "Okay." He shivers as Jake's hand smoothes down Blaise's throat, over his chest. "Well, we can kiss against the wall again, if you'd like. That was nice."

"Just nice," Jake murmurs, his lips ghosting over Blaise's, his hands finding Blaise's hips again and curling over them, pushing Blaise a step back. 

"Oh, you know," Blaise says between deep, toe-curling kisses, letting Jake nudge him backwards. "Nice enough, really."

A wave of elation ripples through Blaise as his shoulders touch the wall, and then he's wrapping his arms around Jake's neck and Jake's hips are moving perfectly against his, with a slow sliding grind that leaves Blaise shaking and gasping. Blaise's body is responding, pleasure rising higher and higher, his lips meeting Jake's furiously, kisses all teeth and tongues. Blaise nips at Jake's mouth, moans on a particularly good drag of Jake's hips against his. The friction is everything, hot and desperate and Circe, Blaise hasn't come in his pants since Hogwarts, but he's a precious few strokes away with the smell of Jake Durant on his nostrils and the taste of him on his tongue.

Blaise digs his nails into Jake's shoulders, arching his back. "Oh, fuck, if you don't stop, I'm actually going to--"

Jake bites along Blaise's neck, his hips moving gently, pressing Blaise back into the wall. "Does that bother you? Or can we cast spells afterwards." His hands curl beneath Blaise's arse, lifting him up. 

Blaise wraps his legs around Jake's hips, letting him push, push, push into him delightfully. "Spells," he gasps. "Oh, Merlin, fuck. Yes."

They hit the right rhythm, neither fast nor slow, and Blaise can feel the traces of Jake on his consciousness, careful thoughts with their warmth and reassurance, and something unfurls in Blaise's chest and he's flying, his body soaring on a crest of desire. With one rough push of his hips forward, he shouts, as loud as he's ever shouted during sex, and he's coming, gasping and shuddering and clinging to Jake, as bolts of pure sensation shoot through him until he's featherlight and shaking in the aftermath.

The first thing Blaise realises is that his pants are bloody disgusting, filled with spunk and sweat, and he's going to need good spells to clean his trousers. The second thing he realises is that Jake is also gasping for breath, and that they both just had, from the sound of Jake's groans a moment ago, fucking fantastic orgasms. Blaise is almost sorry that it's over, although his body is loose and pliant, and he could, really, think about going again.

Jake chuckles, leaning back. "Yeah, I could too."

"Did I think that out loud?" Blaise looks at Jake, his heart briefly clenching in his chest. He doesn't want to project everything he's thinking. Not right now at least. Not tonight. 

Jake stops for a moment, head tilting. "Not really. I can just hear you really well. Maybe an aftereffect of the orgasm." He smiles at Blaise, and the warmth makes Blaise's cheeks tingle. And other parts of his anatomy.

 _Carry me over to the bed,_ Blaise thinks. He waits to see if it worked. He's still wrapped around Jake, his legs around his hips, his arms thrown around his neck.

 _Your wish is my command_ Jake's voice in Blaise head is teasing, and Blaise is shivery with the strangeness of it. He hoists Blaise a bit higher and turns, walking him from the sitting room into the bedroom. _Would you like anything else while I'm up?_

"I'd like for you to be really up, again." Blaise's voice is mocking as Jake drops him on the bed.

"Gimme a few minutes." Jake smiles down at Blaise, surveying him. His eyebrow goes up. _Maybe less than that once you're naked_

Bloody hell, Blaise thinks. This is going to be one hell of a night.

***

Harry nuzzles Draco's neck as Draco's mobile chirps, a text notification coming in. They're curled against one another, Draco pressed to Harry's non-bandaged side, in a circle booth at Tabac, with Parkinson and Whitaker on one side, Ron and Hermione on the other. Even Martine and Espinoza are there, drinks in their hands.

Not that Harry's drinking, mind. He's been warned off such pleasures, at least whilst he's taking the slew of potions the Healers at Bonavista have him on to heal the internal damage Dolohov's curse has done to his shoulder. At least two of them are pain potions, which Harry's grateful for. It still aches to move his shoulder, but the potions dull the worst of it, and even without them, it's nowhere near as bad as it'd been last night. Still, Harry's glass is filled with water, but he doesn't mind. His head's buzzing a bit on the dose of pain potion he'd just taken twenty minutes ago. Enough at least, that he doesn't give a fuck who sees him pressing his mouth against Draco's jaw, nudging Draco with his nose until Draco turns his head enough for Harry to brush a small, soft kiss across Draco's mouth. Draco tastes like the Boulevardier he's been sipping from for the past half-hour, bitter and sweet and perfect.

"Jesus, Harry," Ron says from his side of the booth. "Lay off, will you?" But his voice is affectionate, and Harry just smiles at him, feeling warm and soft and relaxed. 

Draco reaches for his mobile, shifting to pull it out of his pocket and flip it open. He frowns down at it, then his mouth quirks to one side. "Well," he says as he closes his mobile back up again. "It seems we won't be enjoying Blaise and Durant's company tonight." He curls closer into Harry's side, his hand splaying across Harry's belly. 

"Are they actually fucking then?" Parkinson asks, and she frowns. "If that bastard hurts Our Blaise--"

"Please," Martine says with a snort. "Jake doesn't have it in him. He couldn't even be a complete asshole to this putain de con." She waves her drink Harry's way. 

Harry's feeling too damned relaxed and happy with Draco beside him to care. "I love you too, Martine."

She flips her middle finger his way, but she's smiling, if just a little, so Harry doesn't think she's too angry with him. At the moment at least. He frowns. There was something he was supposed to talk to Jake about tonight. He shakes his head. He'll think of it later.

Hermione touches Harry's leg. "You look a bit high, love." 

"I feel a bit high," Harry says with a laugh, and his fingers curl around Draco's. "It's not half-bad." Every time he looks at Draco, his heart swells, shudders inside of him. He wants to shout from the rooftops, tell everyone sitting around him that he's bloody mad for this man, that he's in love for the first time in his life, and he's never felt more alive. More real. More _him._

Harry lifts Draco's hand, kisses his knuckles. He loves the way Draco's cheeks pinken, the way the flush spreads to the curve of Draco's ear, visible only because Draco's hair is pulled up to the top of his head again. Harry wants to brush his fingers across it, tell Draco how bloody gorgeous he looks like this, how much he wishes they were alone in their room, where they could lie tangled together in their bed, exchanging slow, easy kisses, whispering to one another with each soft press of their lips. 

But he's here with their friends, their colleagues, and he doesn't even care that Jake's with Zabini. Harry's happy for them really, at least right now, and he wonders if that's odd. He's never given a damn about an ex after he's walked away. Not until now, at least. Maybe it's stupid of him, but Harry does wish Jake happiness. 

Even if it's with someone under Harry's command. Even if it's only for one night. 

They'll be going home soon, Harry thinks. Tomorrow, perhaps, or the next day. MACUSA's still dragging its feet on the extradition, and Harry thinks that's probably Graves' doing. Fucking bastard wanker. Still, Harry's looking forward to going back to London with Draco, to settling back into Grimmauld Place. He looks over at Draco, at the way Draco's face is turned towards Parkinson, a faint smile curving his lips, his eyes bright and happy. Harry wonders if he could talk Draco into leaving his flat behind, moving into Grimmauld Place with Harry. Filling the new dressing room with his clothes and his shoes, taking over the shelves in the en suite with his face creams and hair products and all that shit that Draco has packed in his own bath. 

Fuck, Harry thinks, he'd even put Narcissa Malfoy in a spare room if it'd make Draco more likely to come live with him. Kreacher'd be delighted, he's sure. Harry doesn't know how he'd explain it to Robards, but, well, they'd work it out somehow.

"How are you holding up, Parkinson?" Hermione asks, and she's leaning against the table, her elbows folded up against her tits. She looks genuinely concerned. "Jake said he'd told you about your brother-in-law."

And Harry glances towards Parkinson, taking in her sallow, unhappy face, her hair falling limply across her cheek. She shrugs and picks up her wine glass. "All right, I suppose." She chews on her bottom lip. "Eustace always has been a fucking tit in my book, so I'm not surprised he's managed to finagle his way into criminal activity." There's something else she's not saying, Harry thinks, and he doesn't know how he knows. It's a sixth sense or something, but Parkinson's mouth thins out, and she looks away. Draco places his hand over hers, squeezing lightly, and she gives him a small smile before pulling her hand away. 

Whitaker's on her other side, and she looks tense. Harry doesn't blame her. He'd felt like shit putting her on Fawley's interview this afternoon, but she's good and Harry hadn't wanted MACUSA to handle it on their own. He doesn't know what good it'll do. Fawley's crimes had been committed on American soil and even if Dolohov's involved, Harry doesn't know that they'd be able to pull Fawley into an extradition. Whitaker and Espinoza hadn't managed much from Fawley anyway. Not before his legal team swooped in, Raymont Treatham at the head, and Harry can't help but wonder why the man's defending Dimitri Godunov and his mistress's husband. There's something going on there, but Harry thinks the Americans will have Fawley in Oudepoort before his team can track it down. 

"I'm just worried," Parkinson says, her voice quiet, "about Daise. I rang her up this afternoon. Wanted to see how she was."

Or what she knew, Harry thinks. Parkinson's no fool. 

Whitaker looks at Parkinson, raises her glass of water to her lips. "Is she all right?"

"She had the solicitors there," Parkinson says, then she laughs, raw and bitter. "Lawyers, I mean. Daisy wasn't really interested in talking with me at the moment." She looks away, and the table falls silent. 

"Bad luck," Espinoza says finally. She turns her martini glass between her fingers. "Sorry, Parks."

"It'll be fine." Parkinson takes a sip of her wine, but Harry's not certain it will be. Not for her family. Not for a while at least. Parkinson gives them all a faint, sardonic smile. "Look, I'm not all that keen to talk about it. Not right now, at least. But I'm all right." Her mouth tightens ever so slightly. "I always land on my two feet."

Draco draws in a soft sigh, then exhales. "You don't have to be fine, Pans," he says softly, but she turns a brittle, sharp look on him. 

"I do, Draco," Parkinson says. "You know that as well as I do."

They exchange a long glance, the way only the Slytherins can, Harry thinks, then Draco nods and Parkinson sinks back against the banquette. 

It's quiet for a moment, then Hermione says, "Well, at least we've got Dolohov."

"Hear, hear," Martine says, raising her glass, and then they're all clinking across the table, Draco lifting Harry's across for him, then handing it back to him to take a sip. Their fingers brush, their eyes meet, and Harry feels warm and content and strangely, despite everything, happy. 

Harry relaxes against the banquette, his arm slipping back around Draco, pulling him closer. He likes being open like this, not caring who might walk past, likes the way their friends just accept it as normal now, even Ron and Hermione, when Harry leans in and kisses Draco lightly, enjoying the way Draco lets him before pulling back and giving Harry that small, warm smile meant just for him.

Drinks are bought again, and then once more before Martine calls off, saying she has to be back to her girlfriend before too late. Espinoza leaves ten minutes later, and Harry nudges Hermione's knee, not wanting to interrupt Draco's conversation with Parkinson.

"Need a slash," he says, and Hermione pushes Ron out of the booth, following him to let Harry slide his way out. 

"I could use one too," Ron says, and Hermione rolls her eyes and slips back into the booth.

"And you complain when Luna and I go to the loo together," she says, but there's a fond curve to her mouth as she picks her wine glass back up again and gives Harry's sling a pointed look. "At least Ron can help you get your zip down." 

Harry just grins, holding his wounded arm close to him again. "I think I can spell it down myself, thanks." 

Ron follows him to the loo in the back of the bar, and Harry stops at the urinal, tugging at his zip with his left hand. It takes him a moment, but he gets it undone as Ron starts to piss beside him. They're silent, Harry holding his prick with his left hand as he empties his bladder, then shakes his cock, letting the last bits of piss fall into the urinal. Ron flushes, then zips himself back up, looking over at Harry. 

"So you and Malfoy look like you're doing well," Ron says as Harry tucks himself back into his pants. 

"Yeah." Harry gives Ron a small smile, reaching over to flush. The sound echoes in the empty loo. Ron walks over to the sinks. Harry hesitates, his fingers working at his zip again, then he says quickly, his back to Ron, "I told him I love him." He looks over his shoulder.

Ron stills, the water pouring from the faucet to the sink. "Did you?" His voice sounds a bit faint. "That's a big deal, Harry."

Harry walks over, soaps his free hand up and runs it beneath the water. "I know." He watches as Ron washes his own hands, silent, then he reaches for a paper towel. "But I do."

It takes Ron a moment to turn off the water and dry his own hands. He shifts, leans his hip against the sink. "How does he feel about that?"

"He's okay with it." Harry grins as Ron's eyebrow goes up. "He loves me too," Harry says quietly, and he looks over at Ron. "Does that bother you?"

"No," Ron says. His arms are folded across his chest though. "I want you to be happy. Are you?"

Harry catches a glimpse of his face in the mirror above the sink. He doesn't think he's ever looked this bloody happy before. "Yeah," he says. "Brilliantly."

Ron just nods, and he studies Harry's face. "All right then." He rubs his hand over his jaw. "Mum's going to be…" He hesitates, then sighs. "Well. Mum. She kept thinking this gay thing was just a phase for you."

"Bisexual," Harry says. "And I wasn't ever going to marry Gin. You know that, yeah?"

"I know." Ron looks a bit wistful. "Can't blame me for wishing you might, though, yeah? How many blokes get their best mate in their family?" He frowns, as if something's occurring to him. "Does this mean Malfoy's going to be coming to holidays? Because that'll be bloody awks, won't it? What with Dad and his dad hating each other something awful?"

Harry shrugs. "He's not his dad, though, is he?" And Draco's not. He never could be. He's not Lucius, he's Draco, with all the spark and bite and snark that comes along with being a dragon. Harry's dragon, Harry thinks, and a furl of joy wavers through him. 

Ron just watches Harry. "You're mad about him." He gives Harry a wry smile. "I recognise that expression. Saw it on my face all the time when I realised I was arse over tit for Hermione."

"I bloody well am," Harry says, with such fervour that Ron just laughs. 

The door to the loo swings open, and Draco's there, looking between them. "Granger sent me," he says with a raised eyebrow, "to tell Weasley she's ready for another glass of wine and then bed." His mouth twitches. "I won't relay the rest of the message, although really, Weasel, the things your wife's interested in…"

"She's a kinky girl," Ron says cheerfully, and he pushes himself off the sink. "I'd best go rescue her before she gets too terribly sauced. We'll never make it back to the hotel in time." He looks over at Harry. "I'm happy for you," he says, then his gaze slides over to Draco. "And the Ferret too."

Draco rolls his eyes, but he waits until the door slams closed behind Ron to turn to Harry and demand, "What did you tell him?"

"That I'm in love with you?" Harry reaches a hand out, brushes back a stray lock of hair that's slid out of Draco's knot. "Madly, deeply, perfectly?"

"You didn't," Draco says, but his lips curve up at the corners. 

Harry moves closer to Draco, lets his hand drop to Draco's chest, fingers toying with the buttons on Draco's white shirt. "I did. I am."

Draco just watches him with those bright, tempestuous eyes. "You're pissed."

"I'm high," Harry says. "There's a difference." His thumb drags across Draco's bottom lip. "Christ, you're so beautiful."

"You're wounded." But Draco nips Harry's thumb, his teeth light against Harry's skin, and Harry shivers. 

"Pity."

And then Draco's pushing Harry back into one of the empty stalls, his mouth on Harry's. "Merlin, you arsehole," Draco says against Harry's lips. "What you do to me--"

Harry's free hand is grabbing at Draco, pulling him up against him. "This is a horrible idea," he says, and Draco laughs, his hands already pulling at Harry's trousers. 

"The worst we've ever had." Draco pushes Harry against the stall door, and Harry winces. Draco stills. "Your shoulder?"

"It's fine," Harry says. It's not, but Harry has no bloody intention of telling Draco that. Not right now. His prick's half swollen in his trousers as it is. "But we might want to be a bit more careful…"

Draco's hands tug Harry's zip down, push his trousers so they're gaping wide. "I'll suck you, if you want."

And Harry does. "Oh, fuck, yes," he chokes out as Draco slides down to his knees on the filthy loo floor. Harry watches as Draco pulls Harry's prick out, thick and stiff and ruddy already. "Is it me," Harry asks, "or do we have a predilection for fucking in toilets? I mean, it was showers back in March, but May was definitely a club toilet--"

"Harry," Draco says, looking up at him. "Shut the fuck up, please. I'd like to suck your cock now, if you don't mind."

"That'd be all right, I think," Harry says, and he licks his lips, presses his back against the stall door. He shudders when Draco's mouth brushes along the length of his shaft, and he closes his eyes, breathing out. Harry doesn't know if it's the potions he's on or the fact that he's been so damned open about his bloody emotions, but the very thought of Draco taking Harry's cock into his mouth makes him feel as if he's going to pop any moment now. He tries to calm himself, tries to make it last more than a heartbeat or two. 

But then Draco's lips close around the head of Harry's prick, and Christ, Harry's whole body jerks, his legs tensing, and Harry groans when Draco swirls his tongue over the swollen head, opens his jaw, sucking Harry's cock all the way down into his lovely throat.

"Jesus, Draco," Harry whispers, completely undone. He tries to keep his hips from thrusting. He can't really see well past his immobilised arm, but he can feel the spit-slicked stretch of Draco's lips, the warmth of his mouth, the pull of his hand around Harry's shaft. The sensations blend into one until Harry's got his left hand in Draco's hair, fingers twisted around the knot, trying to tell him he's coming, and Draco only sucks him harder. Harry gives in then, and lets his boyfriend drag his mouth along Harry's cock until Harry cries out, his hips bucking forward, his body shaking, in the loo of this silly American pub with the ridiculous French fittings, and the force of it nearly knocks Harry to his knees, Draco's mouth still on him, still sucking the remnants of Harry's spunk from his foreskin.

"Shit, did I shout?" Harry asks when he can think again, his chest heaving. Draco's holding him up and kissing him now, his mouth wet and tasting like Harry's prick, salty and bitter like Harry's spunk, and fuck but Harry loves that. He sucks Draco's tongue down, letting his teeth scrape across it as Draco pulls back, a small smile on his face.

Draco's fingertips smooth across Harry's cheek. "It wasn't too bad." Which means it was, Harry thinks, but Draco liked it. He hides a smile of his own. These are the things you learn about someone, he thinks, when you're bloody mad about them. 

"Come here," Harry says, clasping his good arm around Draco and kissing him a bit more, feeling Draco's hard length against his thigh. "What can I do for you?"

Draco shrugs, eyes bright, and wipes a hand over his mouth. "You can kiss me whilst I wank?"

Harry bites at Draco's jaw. "Or you can turn around and I can finger you whilst you wank," he murmurs against Draco's ear, before he pulls back, feeling a bit smug at the way Draco's eyes grow wide. 

"Or that," Draco agrees.

In the end, Draco undoes his trousers, pushing them and his pants down his thighs as he leans forward on one elbow against the side of the stall. There's just enough room for Harry to slick his own fingers with spit and touch them to the soft, pink furl of Draco's arsehole, watching the muscles contract and open around his fingerpads as he hears the rough slap of Draco's hand on his cock, soft groans and breaths interspersed between. Harry experiments with circling his fingers around Draco's hole, seeing if it will open to his touch. He manages to get two fingertips lightly inside, not pushing since it's mostly dry, but working them in as Draco gets closer and closer to coming. Harry'd say a lubrication spell, but he's not sure he can manage control well whilst high on potions and he doesn't want to soak Draco's trousers with any unfortunate results. They still have to go out and face their friends; they've been in here long enough that every bloody one of them will know what they've been up to. 

Harry doesn't fucking care.

"Circe, I want you to fuck me," Draco says, pressing his hips back against Harry's hand. "So badly. Split me open with your cock." His voice is shaking, tight, his body arching, his fingers splayed against the wall of the stall.

Harry leans forward, nipping at Draco's neck. "If I could, I'd push into you right now, like this. Fuck you right here in the loo. Let the whole bloody bar hear you beg me to let you come--" Harry's breath catches at the thought. 

"Yes," Draco hisses, his body taut, his hips rolling back. "I need that. Fuck, I need you, Harry."

Harry presses his fingertips in deeper, wishing he could do as Draco asked and sink his cock into him. He's half-hard against thinking about it, watching Draco's need. "You'd feel so good, hot, tight, ordering me to come inside of you." A shiver of want goes through him. He doesn't know how Draco does this to him, how he makes Harry want him so bloody badly, even through the blur of the potions. 

Draco's breath hitches. "Fucking hell, yes. Fu--" He breaks off into a cry, and Harry can feel the moment it happens, Draco shuddering against him, his arse twitching in spasms, spunk splattering the shellacked wood of the stall. Harry ignores the deep twinge in his shoulder and pulls Draco to him. 

"You're mine," he whispers into Draco's ear, and Draco groans softly at his words. "And I intend to claim you. No matter where we are. No matter who sees us."

Draco cranes his neck back, kisses Harry. Warmth wells up in Harry's chest. "I love you so bloody much, Harry James Potter," he whispers, and Harry closes his eyes, wondering how he managed to find such a goddamned treasure in this man he'd once hated.

They've faced worse than this, haven't they? If they've made it through a war, they can make it through going home.

Harry pulls Draco closer and kisses him again.

***

When Jake goes to draw the shades, Blaise says, "Leave them open. I like seeing the city." He's lying on the bed, his pants and trousers kicked off. Blaise's shirt barely covers his prick, and Jake's eyes rake over him from head to toe, lingering on his legs, the swell of his growing erection, the open buttons at his chest.

"You need to be more naked," Jake says.

"You first." Blaise raises an eyebrow, daring him.

Jake pops the buttons on the flies of his jeans whilst Blaise watches, then pushes them off, his pants and shirt following. And damn, if he doesn't look even better without clothes. Bloody hell, Blaise thinks, letting his eyes drift down Jake's body. Jake's also got a porn star level cock. Blaise is a good eight inches himself, and he feels small next to Jake, whose prick is perfect, long, thick, and dripping at the tip. Jake's glans is pink, and Blaise realises with a surprise that Jake's circumcised. He remembers Pansy saying something about it being common in America, when he'd been curious about Tony's cut prick, but he's never seen a cock without a foreskin in real life. It looks bloody massive.

"You're not running," Jake observes. "This is a good sign."

Blaise shakes his head, a bit dazed. "Not hardly. I'm just… You're cut," he says.

Jake strokes a hand over his length, rolling his palm over the head. "Yeah. It's pretty standard here actually." His prick is hardening, and Blaise is transfixed. "At least among my generation. We didn't really have a choice." The smile he gives Blaise is wry. "So. Your turn. Shirt off. I want a good look at that dick of yours."

Blaise undoes his buttons, letting his shirt open over his chest, then pulling it off and tossing it in a corner. He leans back on his elbows, covering a flutter of nervousness with bravado. He looks good; he knows he does. And he wants Jake Durant so fucking much. If Blaise can only have him for one night, fuck it. Then he's going to have as much of Jake as he possibly can.

Jake shakes his head, his gaze drifting down Blaise's body. "Shit. You're so fucking beautiful." He breathes out.

"Come here," Blaise says, leaning back a little more. Jake climbs onto the bed, lowering himself over Blaise until their bodies are touching and their mouths are close together. 

"What now?" Jake asks, nipping at Blaise's lips.

Blaise smirks, trails a finger down Jake's golden-haired chest. "I think now is when you fuck me."

Jake actually looks a bit stunned. His eyebrows are raised and his lips are moving but he's not making any sound. "Oh," he says finally. "Is it that time then?"

"If you'd like?" Blaise kisses Jake softly, rewarded by the press of Jake's mouth and the slide of Jake's tongue against Blaise's teeth. They steal kisses from each other, breath from the other's mouth, for long moments.

And then Jake drags his lips down Blaise's body, nipping across Blaise's skin. He licks Blaise's chest, his pebbled nipples, and then a trail over Blaise's fluttering stomach, the sharp jut of his hipbone. Jake pillows his head on Blaise's thigh, looking at his cock, one finger dragging along the underside. Blaise stutters a groan, his hips coming up with each soft, slow touch. 

"Fuck, but you feel good." Blaise says. He's hard again, and aching to take Jake into his body, to show him how ready he is for him. "Lube," he says. "In the drawer."

Jake sits up, digs through the nightstand before pulling out a small bottle. "I'm going to slick my fingers up with this and finger you open. I can also cast preparatory spells, if you like."

Blaise gives him a smug grin. "I might have already done a few whilst you were in the loo."

Jake laughs. "I see." He oils up his thick fingers, and slides them beneath Blaise's bollocks, to the soft indent of his arse. Merlin, but Blaise's thankful for all of the spellcasting practice he'd had in school--at least the most useful ones for facilitating a good bumming. Jake gets two fingers easily into Blaise, and at the third, Blaise gasps at the stretch, willing his body to get used to it. It's delicious, and with the right angle, his hips come off the bed. 

"That good?" Jake asks, twisting his fingers together and stabbing upwards.

Blaise bites his lip, groans. "Yes. Oh, just like that." It's worth it, he thinks. Tonight. One night. He'll take everything that's on offer, let his body ride out this wave of desire until they're both spent. Aching. Done with it all. 

Jake keeps fingering Blaise, slowly opening his body and sending white-hot stabs of pleasure through him. Blaise hasn't bottomed in several years, and he lets Jake know that mentally, lets him see the last time.

Jake pulls back, stopping the motion of his hand a moment. "Really? I thought." He pauses. "Wow. I wouldn't have guessed."

"I've fucked other people," Blaise says, a bit breathlessly. "But this?" He looks up at Jake, his arms stretched wide above his head, his hips moving, pressing down against Jake's fingers. "I don't let just anyone fuck my arse, Jake Durant."

"Fucking hell," Jake breathes out.

Blaise arches his back, letting his head drop back as Jake works the tip of a fourth finger into him. He feels full and empty at the same time. "I think-- This is great, but I'm ready for your cock."

Jake keeps looking at him with wide eyes, and it makes Blaise feel incredibly powerful. He likes keeping Jake guessing, making him work to follow him. He doesn't want Jake to have control, even if he is topping. And Jake is such a top, Blaise thinks. Blaise can't really imagine anyone more so.

It's just as well Blaise loves a thick cock up his arse. He's been looking forward to this for weeks, and he hopes it measures up.

"Well, we aim to please," Jake says, on his knees between Blaise's spread legs, and Blaise realises he thought that last bit a little too loudly.

The first stretch around Jake's cock is a shock--Blaise actually has the breath knocked out of him. He remembers to breathe, to push back, and Jake waits patiently. It's one thing to be stretched with fingers, but it's another to have a fat prick pushing up inside of you.

After a few moments of adjustment, Blaise shifts, his hips loosening again. Jake frowns with concentration. Blaise pulls him forward with a hand on his hip, and Jake sinks further into Blaise.

Blaise is gasping, delightfully pinned and willing his body to yield. He wants this so much. So very bloody much. Jake pulls back, adds a little bit more oil, and slides in another good few inches. It's hitting inside Blaise perfectly, even though Jake isn't all the way in, and Blaise is feeling his Veela hormones surge. He's not sure why, but Jake seems to trigger all of his weird, possessive instincts. He wants to wrap his legs around Jake's hips, jerk him up against him until Jake's filling him completely. 

"Fuck. Harder, Jake." Blaise hooks his forearms under his knees, pulling them up towards his chest.

"Be. Goddamn. Patient." Jake's gritting his teeth, and his cock is throbbing inside of Blaise. He pushes forward, a little broken gasp leaving his lips, and then he bottoms out inside of Blaise's body. Merlin, but it's _incredible._ Blaise's knees are pressed to his chest, his arse is on fire, he's gasping for breath, and he feels bloody amazing, finally alive for the first time in weeks.

Blaise nips hungrily at Jake's neck, then his mouth, his eyes closing as Jake's lips open up to his. They kiss like this, bodies slotted together, deeply connected. Blaise sucks at Jake's tongue, then groans into his mouth as Jake gives a little experimental thrust.

"Circe. Your cock." Blaise says. His eyes flutter open. He stares up at Jake, breathless, and he knows he must look a damn fool. He doesn't care. He's desperate for more, desperate for Jake to thrust into him again, to pound Blaise into the bloody mattress. Something raw and primal wakes up in him, stretches, presses him up into one more rough kiss. 

"My brother always said there must have been someone born without because I got enough for two," Jake says with a grin when Blaise falls back against the mattress.

Blaise laughs. "Never say that." He lets his fingers trail across Jake's face. "But I think you're perfect." His cheeks burn. Merlin, what an idiot he is. This is just one night.

Jake shakes his head, wondering. "No, if anyone here's perfect, it's you." He trails his lips down Blaise's jaw, pushing his hips into him.

Blaise gets confident enough to wrap his arms around Jake, letting him spread his legs and thrust into him. Jake is careful at first, sliding in tiny increments in and out of Blaise's arse.

Blaise puts a palm on Jake's chest to get his attention. "I'm not made of porcelain, yeah? You can be a bit rougher." And Jake's eyes spark, hot and bright, and a slow, easy smile creases his face. 

"Yeah?" Jake asks, and Blaise nods. His heart thudding against his chest at the look in Jake's eyes. Merlin. Between the devil and Jake Durant, Blaise would choose the devil.

And then Jake bends Blaise nearly double, urging him on, telling him what a pretty fuck he is, how tight his arse feels around Jake's fat dick, until Blaise is nearly out of his mind. Blaise's prick is slick and hard, bobbing between them with each thrust, and he's not sure Jake's enormous cock isn't going to split him open, except it feels so fucking amazing Blaise is sure he doesn't care.

Jake pounds into Blaise's hips, his skin slapping against Blaise's, the mattress bouncing beneath them, slamming loudly against the wall. Blaise twists the sheets in his fingers, his arms outstretched, until Jake's thrusts bring him to the edge, the pressure building in his spine, only to blast him apart with an orgasm deeper than he's ever had before. He's pretty sure he's shed a tear or two, and Jake's still pistoning his hips, then arching his neck in a wordless howl of pleasure.

It's so fierce and all consuming Blaise is surprised that the sheets aren't scorched from their lovemaking.

Afterwards, Blaise staggers into the bathroom to clean up, his legs barely working. He also takes a moment to moisturise his face against beard burn and clean his teeth.

When he comes out, he sees Jake gathering his things. "It's only one time if you spend the night," Blaise observes, hand cocked on his hip.

And Jake reaches for Blaise, kisses him, slow nips to his lower lip, dragging it between his teeth. "Is that so?" He lets Blaise pull him back to the bed, tug him down beside him as they kiss, their hands smoothing across skin, along limbs.

Lying here with Jake twined around him, Blaise thinks softly that this one time could be a world in itself. That maybe they'd never have to stop.

And for this one, long night, Blaise lets himself be happy.

***

Lucius stands in the corner of his holding cell on Thursday afternoon, his hands bound in front of him with an Incarcerous. He's grown used to them by now, these small degradations meant to break his spirit. They will, eventually. Lucius knows that full well, but for now he's determined to hold his head high like the Malfoy he is, heir to a lineage that stretches back to the wizards who had held wands beside William the Conqueror's swordsmen.

He watches as Achilleus Avery examines the paperwork for his transfer. The ginger woman--German, Lucius thinks, by her accent--from the ICW stands beside Avery, her arms crossed, her expression bored. Lucius knows better to assume she's disinterested, though. He's seen the sharp look in her eyes when she glances his way. 

"It's all in order, Lotte," Avery says, and he sweeps his quill across the bottom of the parchment before turning back to Lucius. "Ms Marquandt will be part of our escort, Lucius. Have they explained how we'll be proceeding?"

Lucius raises an eyebrow at the man. "I'm a prisoner, Achilleus. They tell me as little as they can."

Avery gives him a faint smile before glancing back towards the Pakistani Auror at the door, Phoebe Rayne behind him. "Sergeant Shah?"

Shah rubs the back of his neck. "We thought about a Floo transfer, but the ICW weren't happy about that, yeah? Not guarded enough for their liking." He glances at Marquandt who gives him a tight smile, and isn't that interesting, Lucius thinks. Tensions are there, and he wonders idly how he and Avery might exploit that for Lucius's benefit. Something to keep in mind for later, he thinks, before turning back to Shah, who's saying, "So we're using a secure Portkey cabin to take us to Brussels where we'll be met by an ICW transport. We'll hand Mr Malfoy off to them--" He's stopped by a knock on the door, and he turns, opening it enough to hold a quick, hushed conversation with whomever's outside. Shah frowns, then turns back to Avery. "Sorry. There's a problem."

He steps out of the room, and Avery frowns. "I don't like the sound of that," Avery says to Marquandt. 

"I'm sure it's nothing." Marquandt's eyeing Lucius, and he stands straighter, his shoulders back. He may be clad in the dull grey jersey robe of the British prison system, but Lucius'll be damned if he won't hold himself to a certain standard at least. 

Merlin, but he wishes he had a drink. 

The minutes pass by, slow and tiresome. Lucius doesn't like any of this. He wants to be done with it, wants to be settled in whatever new cell they'll throw him in once Brussels has him processed. At least it's not Azkaban, he thinks. One stint in there was more than enough for Lucius's tastes. He's never quite recovered, really, although Lucius isn't certain whether the Dementors or his brother-in-law Rodolphus had been the worst part of it all. 

Ah, Roddy. Honestly, Lucius regrets their first meeting, and the way Roddy had enticed him with the possibilities of power and prestige that could come his way when the Dark Lord ruled. It's still an intriguing thought, he must admit, and there's some part of him drawn to the idea, but Lucius is starting to realise the price he's paid for such fantasies. The separation from his wife, the love of his life. The estrangement from his son. 

The latter particularly stings, he thinks. Perhaps he hasn't been the best of fathers to Draco, but Lucius has tried. And he loves his son. Far more than he thinks Draco realises. Still, it annoys him that Draco's so damned weak. And he won't even begin to address the issue of his son's sexuality. Lucius had always hoped Draco would grow out of it, would give up this obsession with Potter that had driven Lucius mad when Draco was in school. 

Evidently that's not to be. At least not until Potter destroys Draco's heart. And Lucius is certain of that. Draco has always worn his emotions on his sleeve, foolish child, letting them wave about for any idiot to use against him. Potter's just the next in a very long line, and Lucius knows if he expressed any concern about that fact, his son would rage at him. So he'll wait. Draco will want revenge against Potter soon enough, and Lucius rather thinks he'd like to help Draco plot that. 

It's something to look forward to in his incarceration, at least. Merlin knows he'll bloody well need it. 

There's a noise at the door and Shah's back, a slight young man in a Hit Wizard's uniform trailing behind him. Shah looks furious, and a bit unsettled as well. "Right then," Shah says. "I won't be going with you lot to Brussels. Hit Wizard Chang will be taking my place, won't he?" He glances over at Marquandt. "He's a sound lad, well-trained. You'll be safe with him."

Avery frowns. "Might I ask what the issue might be, Sergeant Shah? The paperwork clearly says you'll be--"

"There's an issue with Azkaban," Shah says bluntly. "I can't be sat here like a piffy on a rock, yeah, when something like that bangs up. So, like I said, Chang's taking my spot in the cabin." 

"It's very unusual," Avery starts to say, but Marquandt cuts him off.

"We'll be fine, Achilleus." Marquandt looks over at Shah. "Go take care of what you need to."

Shah nods, and then he's gone again in a swirl of his Auror cloak, a scowl on his face as he leaves Chang behind. Curious, Lucius thinks. He does wonder what might be going on at Azkaban that would require such immediate notice.

Avery's face is pinched and tight. "I don't like it. Perhaps we ought to hold off on the transfer."

"Don't be ridiculous." Marquandt sounds tired. "We've already made arrangements on the other end. Chang's perfectly capable of escorting us via Portkey, aren't you?"

Chang looks younger than Draco in Lucius's opinion, but the boy nods, curt and quick. "It's an easy trip."

Marquandt shrugs and leans back against the wall, long and lean in her black trousers and green silk shirt. Lucius normally prefers a woman in a skirt, but he finds Marquandt oddly attractive today. She glances down at her watch. "It's nearly half-three," she says. "They'll be coming for us soon."

She's not half-wrong. It takes a bit longer, but the door's finally opened by Rayne, who comes in to make certain Lucius' wrist binding is secure. She gives Lucius a faint smile. "You're a sodding arsehole," she says, "but I might actually miss you."

His mouth twitches to one side. "Perhaps."

They lead him down the hall, Avery at his side, and down another corridor, deeper into the Department of Mysteries. Lucius looks around him. The last time he'd walked these halls was the night he'd been captured and put in Azkaban the last time, thanks to bloody Potter and his friends. The thought irritates Lucius, makes him think of the glances Potter and Draco were exchanging at his hearing on Monday. Honestly, one would think Draco might have better taste, if he must indulge this adolescent interest in men. And Lucius blames Severus for that, really. He doesn't know how, but he's certain Severus' ridiculous proclivities must have influenced Draco in some way. Merlin damned well knew it wasn't anything Lucius had a hand in. Or Narcissa for that matter. They'd been brilliant in bed together, and Lucius feels a quiet pang at that reminder. He's been a shit to Cissy in recent years, but he does love her. Desperately.

The Portkey cabin is in a larger room. Lucius eyes it with trepidation. He's never been in one, although he's heard about them. It's a small, rectangular pod of sorts, the door standing wide open. The pod itself is imbued with Portkey charms, and purportedly it's meant to transport everyone inside to a specified location. Same as a smaller, portable Portkey. 

Lucius has heard tales, though. About bodies half left behind, worse even than Splinching. For a moment he thinks about insisting he won't be put into the damned thing, but then Chang and Rayne are leading him in, sitting him down, undoing his Incarcerous, then refastening his arms to the side of cabin with enough room to move, at least a little bit. Avery takes the seat next to him. 

"I'm still not certain of this," Avery says. "But the paperwork's been signed, so…" He sighs and shakes his head, his glasses nearly slipping off his nose. 

Really, Lucius wants Avery to shut it. He's tired of his barrister's fretting. The man could bloody well worry for England, Lucius thinks. He watches as Marquandt enters and the Portkey cabin closes up behind her. She looks over at Avery as she takes her seat. 

"There's been a breakout from Azkaban," she says. "At least that's what they were talking about out there a moment ago."

Lucius perks up. "Really? How lovely for them."

And that makes Marquandt smile a little. "It's not going to help you any."

"One never knows." Lucius raises his eyebrow. He knows she's right, but he'd like to imagine at least. "Was it Dementors?"

"Don't know." Marquandt looks up as the Portkey cabin bounces once, a countdown starting to show on one of the walls, inscribed in tall, bright red numbers. "Could be."

They're silent, waiting, watching the numbers shift. Lucius feels a flutter of excitement deep inside, and he tries to press it down. A zero appears, and then there's a small pause before Lucius feels the tug of the Portkey charm, and he pulls a bit against the arm bindings, grips his seat edge tightly with both hands, willing himself to stay upright as they swirl away into darkness. 

A moment later the cabin lands with a thump, then another, and it stills. Rayne and Chang wait a moment, and then they're on their feet, undoing Lucius' arms from the wall, and spelling them in front of him again. How very tiresome, Lucius thinks. 

The cabin door swings open, and Lucius sighs, expecting the blue and red uniforms of the ICW Auror force. Instead he sees four quick blasts of green light, one striking Marquandt, then another Rayne, another Chang, and the last Avery, who blinks once, his mouth opening then closing before he crumples against the floor of the Portkey cabin. 

It happens so fast, Lucius can barely process that he's standing in the middle of four dead bodies, and then Rodolphus is there, his eyes sharp and quick, his beard matted against his chin. He stops in the doorway, giving Lucius a wide, happy smile. "Lucius, old friend." 

Lucius just looks at him. "You're supposed to be in Azkaban."

"Supposed to be, yes." Rodolphus wipes the tip of his wand on his robes. They're new, Lucius realises, and he wonders if Roddy stole them from somewhere. "But I was finding it so bloody tedious. Wouldn't you?"

"Most likely," Lucius says. "So you've come here to kill my barrister, have you? That's bloody off of you. I rather liked Achilleus. He was amusing, if nothing else."

Roddy's just stood there, looking at Lucius with a small, strange smile on his mouth. "I always did like you, Luci," Roddy says. "Pity, really." 

"I'm certain I don't understand," Lucius says, and he furrows his brow.

"You will." Roddy's wand comes up, and it's only then that Lucius feels the faintest frisson of fear.

"Rodolphus," he says, but it's already too late. 

Always too late.

He's falling, reaching out for Rodolphus's hand, but his fingers grasp at nothing but air. 

And darkness takes him.

***

Draco's sat in the incident room, flipping through the transcript of his and Durant's interview of Dolohov yesterday. There's something off about it, something that he feels as if he's not picking up on, something that he thinks he ought to recognise, something that Dolohov was trying to tell him. He turns the page back to the discussion of his father and frowns down at it. How deeply _was_ Lucius involved, he wonders. He knows Durant's right; Dolohov was just trying to get beneath his skin, and he bloody well did.

But Draco knows his father. Knows how much Lucius wants power. 

What exactly would his father be willing to do for that power?

"I can hear you thinking from over here," Althea says across the room. They're the only two in the incident room so far. Harry's off in a meeting with Graves and Granger, Pansy's wrapping up her work in the lab, and fuck only knows where Blaise is. Probably with Durant still, since Draco hasn't seen him either and an hour ago he'd heard Martine complaining about not having him in yet to sign off on something. Althea looks up from her own paperwork. She's been following the Eustace lead. Unhappily, Draco thinks. None of them want to upset Pans any further than she already is, but it's not something that they can drop either. And Harry's made it clear he doesn't want to just leave it with MACUSA. Not without them at least making certain Eustace has done what they're suggesting he has. 

So far it doesn't look good for Euey, and that worries Draco. Not just for Pansy's sake either. Daisy Parkinson can be a cow, but Draco likes her. And he hopes like bloody hell she's not caught up in this too. Draco doesn't think Pans could deal with that. At all. 

Draco sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. Circe, everything's so complicated now. "Just thinking about how fucked up our families can be." He chews his lip. "Mine. Pansy's." He runs his hand through his loose hair, pushing it back off his forehead. "And how bloody small the wizarding world is, really. We all know each other. Half our families have intermarried at some point. You know both Pansy and Harry are distant relatives of mine? How sodding mad is that?"

Althea leans back in her chair. She's wearing a pale blue shirt today with thin white pinstripes in it. Draco thinks it suits her severity. "It's not that odd, percentagewise. Particularly amongst pureblood families. Not a lot of choice there, if you're not stepping out of the wizarding gene pool sometimes."

"I suppose." Draco scowls down at his interview transcript. "But then you've got the Old Man, yeah? Who the fuck would have thought he'd be a Yaxley? I mean, the only one I really knew was Corban, and Merlin's tits, the man was a complete arsehole, and trust me, I'd know from arseholes. He was always haunting the Manor hallways when the Dark Lord took over. The way he used to look at me, like I was some sort of prey he was sizing up--" He looks up, sees Althea's shocked face. "What?"

"You found out who the Old Man was?" Althea's voice is high and strained. 

Draco blinks. "Oh, right. You were in with Eustace all afternoon. You didn't hear." 

"No." Althea looks taken aback. "I didn't. But I wasn't aware any Yaxleys had immigrated to the States."

"It was recent," Draco says. Once they'd had the Old Man's name Espinoza had been able to get the records easily. They'd spent half the afternoon piecing the bits together. "Aldric Yaxley and his daughter Astrid came over in the Eighties. She was evidently preggers at the time, so Our Les was born here. Adopted by Astrid's new husband a few years later and they all took on the name Harkaway."

Althea just looks at him, all colour drained from her face. "Aldric. It means old ruler, you know." Her laugh is a little too sharp, a little too bright. "Old Man. Bloody hell he was hiding in sight."

Draco shrugs. "Well, he's rich and high-bloody-society and he has the President wrapped around his finger, from what I can tell. So that's MACUSA's problem now." At least Draco hopes it is. He just wants to do his damned job, not get caught up in another country's political issues. Durant and his lot can do that. Draco can barely manage the British Ministry as it is. He frowns. "But he knew my father. Said I looked like him, and made more than one implication that he'd socialised with Death Eaters at the Manor. So that'll probably come back to bite us on the arse."

"Probably." Althea falls silent, and Draco looks back down at his transcript. He doesn't really read it. His mind's swirling with thoughts of Yaxley and his father, and what connections they might have in common. 

And then Althea says, quietly, "Aldric Yaxley had two children, you know." Draco looks up at her; she's set her quill down and she's chewing at her bottom lip. He waits, eyebrow raised. Martine had asked Harry to put in a request on the British side for Aldric Yaxley's records, which he'd done this morning, as soon as they'd walked into the incident room, but as far as Draco knows, they haven't come through yet, which is surprising. Robards is usually insistent that Records be on top of requests from Aurors. A quick turnaround can save lives. 

"Corban was Aldric's son," Althea says finally. "And he was my mum's cousin."

Draco's surprised. "Aldric Yaxley acted like he didn't know Corban. Although he hinted at his being dead."

"Well," Althea says. "He lied, given that he fathered him. And also given that we think Corban's alive."

Unsurprising, really. Draco'd thought there was something off about Aldric Yaxley. He'd just been so worried about Harry. And Pans. He leans back in his chair, watching Althea, and then it hits him what she's said just before. "Right. You'd said your mother was a Yaxley."

Althea doesn't look at him. "Clio Yaxley Whitaker," she says. "Aldric was her uncle. She spoke of him some. She wasn't fond of that branch of the family." Her laugh is a half-sob. "I mean, Corban did help kill her after all."

And then Draco's on his feet, moving across the incident room. "Fucking hell." Draco leans against the side of her desk, frowning down at her. "Then it's no wonder Aldric Yaxley recognised me. If he wasn't a Death Eater, he certainly moved in their circles. And now he's bankrolling the US Presidency."

Althea crosses her arms over her chest. She looks brittle, fragile, as if the wrong word from Draco might shatter her completely. "He must have been connected. Mum…" Her voice thickens, catches, and she coughs to cover the emotion. "Mum hated her uncle. Hated Corban too. He was older than her, and she said he was vicious to anyone who crossed him. Even when she was little."

That sounds like Corban Yaxley, Draco thinks. He'd stayed the hell out of the man's way. 

"Christ," Althea says finally, and she puts her face in her hands, her elbows on the desk. "What were you saying about it being a small world?"

They're silent, and then Draco sighs again. "You're going to have to talk to Harry about this. He needs to know about your connections to the case. And your mum's." So does MACUSA, probably, but Draco doesn't want to point that out. Not yet at least, not while they're headed home to London.

Althea nods, then drops her hands. She stares blankly forward, her gaze fixed on the wall across the room. "Yeah. I suppose."

Draco hesitates, and then he puts his hand on her shoulder, squeezes lightly. She looks up at him. "I haven't said anything to the others, you know," he says. "Not even Harry. This is your family. Your story to share. Not mine, yeah?"

"Thanks." Althea still looks stretched tight, like she's barely breathing. "I appreciate that, Malfoy."

Draco lets his hand fall. They sit like that for a moment, until the door bursts open, and Blaise saunters in, looking more relaxed than he has in days. Draco eyes him, takes in the easy slouch of Blaise's shoulders, the way his grey silk shirt and fitted black trousers hang on him, radiating a casual hipness, his black suit coat thrown over his shoulder.

"Should I applaud your appearance?" Draco asks. He glances over at the clock on the wall. "At twenty-two past eleven in the morning?"

"It's still morning." Blaise just smiles and drapes his jacket over the back of his chair before dropping into the seat, his hands behind his head. "Itch scratched," he says. "And scratched, and scratched, and scratched again. Twice this morning, even."

"Thanks for the details." Draco tries not to smile; it only encourages Blaise. 

"Hormones sated?" Althea asks, and Draco turns towards her, his eyebrow quirking up. Blaise doesn't admit his Veela heritage to everyone. 

"She figured it out," Blaise says, correctly interpreting Draco's look. He glances over at Althea. "Not sated, per se. But definitely lessened." He grins. "Jake Durant's prick is bloody enorm--"

"And thank you for not sharing that fact with us," Draco says, as firmly as he can. "Given that he _is_ my boyfriend's ex?"

Blaise falls silent, looking a bit chagrined, but it doesn't last for long. "Let's just say I had a brilliant time and my arse is bloody sore?"

Still too much in Draco's book, but he just rolls his eyes and stands up. "Well, if you've any paperwork left to do, you best get on it. Harry's in with Graves and Granger discussing our exit plan back to London. I think they planned to firecall Robards too." Draco thinks he ought not to have a smug twist of schadenfreude at the way Blaise's face falls a bit. Circe, he's a terrible friend. He really is. A wave of shame goes through him, and he says, "I don't think it'll be tomorrow, so you'll have the weekend still."

Blaise sighs. "Maybe." He looks a bit miserable, and Draco hates that. "We left it at a one-night stand."

Draco wants to snort. "So did Harry and I, and look how that turned out."

"Driving the rest of us round the twist?" Althea asks, and the smile she gives Draco is hesitant. 

He laughs and shrugs. "We've tried to be good."

"And utterly failed," Blaise points out. 

Really, Draco supposes he can't argue that. 

He's still smiling a little as he walks back to his desk. He's just pulled the chair out again when the incident room door opens and Harry walks in, his arm still in its bright white sling, Granger on his heels. There's something about their faces that makes Draco pause, his fingers digging into the back of the chair. 

"What's wrong?" Draco asks, and his heart stills when Harry turns a stricken gaze his way. "Harry." Draco steps away from his desk. "Did something happen to Dolohov--"

"It's your father," Harry says, and his voice breaks. "Draco--"

"No." Draco shakes his head. "No. He's being transported to Brussels. He was supposed to go an hour ago. Avery said he'd ring when everything was completed--" There's a buzzing in Draco's head, loud and angry, and he hadn't even been thinking of that call, had he? He reaches for his mobile in his pocket. Pulls it out. "I must have missed--" 

But when he flips the mobile open, there aren't any messages. He looks at Harry. 

"Please," Draco says. He doesn't know what he's asking for. He can't move. The room shrinks down, all he can see is Harry's face as Harry walks towards him. 

"There was a breakout from Azkaban," Harry's saying softly. "Just before three, London time. Rodolphus Lestrange and two others. A few Dementors as well. That's how Gawain thinks it happened. Those Dementors Dee was having trouble controlling. They broke free." 

And Draco sees Granger's head turn towards Blaise, and he wants to scream at them both. "Your grandfather's in St Mungo's but he'll survive," she's saying to Blaise at the edges of Draco's hearing. Harry's still looking at Draco. 

Blaise makes a soft noise, and Draco feels as if he might sick up. 

"Please, Harry," Draco says, as if he can change what must have happened by begging. "Please don't."

Harry's face twists, as if he's fighting back tears. "Oh, Draco. Love. I'm so sorry--" He breaks off, and he stops, a few feet away. "I--" He closes his eyes, and Draco feels a tight band contract across his chest, almost cutting off his breathing. 

Granger's quiet voice cuts in. "The Portkey cabin was highjacked," she says, and it's hard for Draco to turn his head, to look at her. His body feels as if it's caught in treacle. "Everyone on board was killed."

"By Rodolphus." Draco can barely get the words out; they're a whisper. 

"That's…" Granger hesitates, then nods. "That's the assumption we're working under, yes."

Draco can feel Blaise standing, moving towards him, but it's not Blaise he wants right now. He looks at Harry, and he can't breathe, can't speak, can't… _anything._ He holds out a hand, and his throat is closed off, and there's a rough ringing in his ears.

All he can think of is his father. Not Lucius Malfoy, but his _father_ , the man who had held him steady on his first broom. The man who had walked through the Malfoy forest at Draco's side, showing him the hollows and dips in which he had played in his childhood. The man who had kissed his mother in front of Draco, whirling her around the sitting room floor to the sound of Celestina Warbeck on the wireless. The man who had loved Draco, who had looked at him with pride and delight. 

The man whom Draco had adored.

Gone. 

Dead.

"No," Draco says again, and he shakes his head, the room spinning around him. "No, no, _no._ "

His legs give out, and he's on his knees, the room filled with a sharp, angry keening cry that Draco only barely realises is coming from his own throat. 

In an instant Harry's there beside him, one hand in Draco's hair, pressing Draco's face to his shoulder as he rocks him gently. 

And Draco sobs, his whole body suffocating beneath an avalanche of grief.

***

"How is he?" Hermione asks as she moves to the desk in her hotel suite. Harry's standing in the middle of the sitting room, and he takes the glass of whisky Ron hands him silently.

"As to be expected." Harry takes a long drink. He needs it. His hands have been shaking since Gawain had told them what happened. The whisky burns his throat, his stomach. Harry's glad of it. At least he can feel something. 

Draco's down in their room, packing. Harry hadn't wanted to leave him, but Parkinson and Zabini are with Draco for the moment, and Harry had to come up to get the paperwork from Hermione that'll expedite them through the Chambers Street Portkey terminal tonight. 

"Poor bugger." Ron bins the empty mini-bottle, then walks over to the window ledge, looking out on the city, a glass of whisky in his hand. "I feel for him."

Harry nods, takes another drink, then sets the glass aside. His arm aches in the sling, and he rubs at it with his free hand. He feels hollowed out. Uncertain. "I don't know what to do," Harry admits after a moment. "I don't remember losing my parents--"

Ron turns around, and there's a deep furrow on his brow. "Fuck if I know, Harry." He shakes his head, lifts his whisky to his mouth. He sighs as he sets the glass back down on the ledge. "But I reckon if I were in his place, I'd just want you to be there." He looks over at his wife. "I don't know how I could face something like that without Hermione. She helped me through Fred." His voice cracks a bit, and he looks away, reaching for his whisky again. "Merlin, it never gets easy though."

"It's hard." Hermione looks up from the papers on her desk. Her face is sombre, worried. "You just have to hold him, Harry. Let him feel what he's going to feel. Some days he's going to be so angry he doesn't want to see anyone, even you, but you can't walk away. Give him space, sure, but when he needs you again…" She sighs and folds two sheets of paper, stuffing them into an envelope. "You're going to have to be strong when he can't be."

Harry nods. "I can do that." 

"Sometimes it's harder than you think, mate." Ron's voice is quiet. Ice cubes clink against the side of his glass; he tilts it, watching the whisky shift and eddy. 

Hermione hands Harry the envelope. "That should put you at the top of the queue," she says. "When's your Portkey scheduled?" 

"Seven." Harry wishes they'd been given an official-use Portkey, but not even Hermione had been able to pull strings for that. "So midnight, London time." The rest of the team is staying to wrap up what they can. Hermione's taking point for them for the next few days, and Harry's bloody grateful to her for that. There's no way in fucking hell he'd let Draco go through this on his own. He tucks the envelope in his back pocket and picks up his whisky again, draining the glass before he hands it back to Hermione. She sets it on the desk. "We have to go to the morgue for the official ID in the morning." It's not something he wants to make Draco do, but it's part of the process, and Draco's made it damned clear that his mother's not going to go down there. Not if Draco's around. 

They're quiet for a moment, all of them, then Ron sighs again and pushes himself off the window ledge. "Do you need us to do anything? For you or the Fer--" He catches himself, and says, "Draco?"

"I don't know." Harry's never done any of this before. He wonders how it had happened with his parents. Remus must have buried them. He'd never asked Aunt Petunia if she'd gone to the funeral. If she'd even seen their headstone in Godric's Hollow. 

God, it's been years since Harry's gone himself. 

He scrubs at his face with the balls of his hands, pushing his glasses up on his forehead, then he drops the frames back onto his nose. "Maybe once we know what the plans are."

Hermione nods. "I'll ask Molly to send over food." At Harry's protest, Hermione raises her hand, cutting him off. "You know she'll want to anyway. For your sake, if not Malfoy's, and it's best Ron and I talk to her about that." She looks over at her husband. "Don't you think?"

"Yeah." Ron scratches the back of his neck. "Let us handle it, Harry. We'll explain it all. And Mum'll want to feed you both once she gets it. You know what she's like."

Harry does. He just didn't want it all to come out this way. He'd wanted to have this bubble still, just him and Draco and the way they feel. He'd wanted it to be just them a bit longer, and that's a selfish thought, isn't it? Lucius Malfoy didn't bloody well ask to be murdered.

Jesus, Harry thinks. 

"I should get back to him," Harry says finally. 

And then Ron's pulling him into a side-hug, careful with Harry's still immobilised arm, his forehead pressed against Harry's. "Don't forget to take care of yourself," Ron says gruffly. "It's easy to lose yourself in someone else's grief. I almost pulled Hermione under with mine." He turns his head, looks over at her. Hermione gives them both a small, sad smile. "And we're here for you. Anything you need. Anything Malf--Draco--" Ron hesitates, as if the name still feels strange in his mouth. "Anything Draco needs. You tell us, mate. Promise me."

"I will." Harry's throat is tight with emotion. He wraps his good arm around Ron, pulling him closer. "Thanks."

Ron steps back, his jaw working, and then Hermione's there, hugging Harry with care. "Don't worry about your team," she whispers into his ear. "Either of you. I'll have them home soon enough."

Harry nods, kisses her cheek. "I'm glad you're here."

When Hermione pulls back, her eyes are wet at the lashes. "Take care of him, Harry. I think Malfoy's far more fragile than he likes people to see."

And isn't that the understatement of the century? Still, Harry smiles, just a little. "Yeah. I'll do my best." He only hopes that's good enough. 

He walks to the door, glances back over his shoulder at Ron and Hermione, standing there, hand-in-hand. He wonders if he and Draco will be like them down the road. If he and Draco will even make it that long. 

"Thanks," Harry says again, and he means it. Deeply. He's grateful for his friends, grateful for their understanding, grateful for their standing by him, even when Harry's pushed them away, even if they think he's lost his damned mind. 

And maybe Harry has. 

"We love you," Hermione says quietly. Her gaze meets Harry's. "We always have."

Harry opens the door. "I know," he says, and he gives her a faint, wan smile. "But maybe I haven't always deserved it."

And he's down the hall before she can reply, the dampness in his own eyes spilling out over his cheeks.

He wipes the back of his hand across his eyes and pushes the button for the lift, trying his best to pull himself together. 

Draco needs him, after all.

***

"How can I help?" Pansy asks, her face pressed against the curve of Draco's neck. He breathes in the familiar smell of her, the roses and amber musk of her perfume, the crispness of her soap, and his arms tighten around her.

When she pulls back, he feels a bit bereft. "I need to pack," Draco says. He feels numb still, and his mind can't quite process what's happened. Everytime he thinks of his father, his thoughts skitter away, shuddering through his mind. He looks back at the pile of clothes he's thrown on the bed, mostly his, with a few of Harry's shirts mixed in that he's been wearing every so often. 

Blaise is sat on the edge of the mattress. He looks lost, Draco thinks. Uncertain. "We can do that for you, old man. When's your Portkey?"

"Seven." Draco walks into the bath, turns on the sink. He can feel Pansy following him, but he doesn't look over as he splashes cold water on his face. His hands are shaking as he reaches for the towel, presses it to his face. When he lowers it and looks into the mirror, he's taken aback. His face is pale mostly, but splotched red in spots, and he looks as if he's been carved out of a strangely coloured marble. The dark circles under his eyes are pronounced; his eyes themselves are bloodshot. 

Draco hasn't cried like this in years. 

"I'm so sorry," Pansy says. He looks over at her. She's leaning against the doorjamb, her arms crossed tightly over her chest, an awful look on her face. "I don't know what to do--"

"You can't do anything," Draco says, his voice flat. "No one can." He looks back at himself in the mirror. A wave of anger rolls through him, and he wants to slam his fist against the silvered glass, shattering it, watching it fall around him, slicing through his skin--

Draco closes his eyes and breathes out. He wishes Harry was here with him. It's not that he doesn't understand that Harry had to go get their paperwork. And Blaise and Pansy were here. But Draco misses Harry. Wants Harry to hold him. Needs to cry into Harry's shoulder. 

His good one at least, and aren't they a fucked-up pair?

Draco laughs, but it's mostly a cry, tears seeping from beneath his squeezed-shut lashes. He presses his hands to the counter, leans forward over the sink. 

"Oh, darling." Pansy's hands are warm against Draco's back, and he turns into her embrace again, letting her pull him close. 

And then Blaise is there too, his strong arms wrapped around them both. "We're here," Blaise says quietly, and he presses his mouth to Draco's temple. "Don't you ever forget that, you brilliant bastard. Whatever you need. Whenever you need it. No matter what."

Draco nods and he reaches up, clasps Blaise's hand tightly. They stand there together, and Draco just breathes out, letting his friends hold him close. 

"I'm sorry," Draco murmurs finally. "I don't know what's wrong--"

"Please don't make me hex you," Blaise says. "You've just lost your father and that seems unseemly."

Draco smiles a little at that, but it slips away quickly enough. He steps back, wipes his eyes. "My father whom I loathed." And who loathed me, his mind adds, but Draco shoves that thought away as if it's an asp.

"He's still your father," Pansy says, a bit fiercely. She looks at him, her eyes bright. "Lucius Malfoy may have been a wanker, but he loved you, Draco. In his own fucked up way."

And that's the hell of it, isn't it? Draco knows this. Knows that his father and he were complicated together. But he loved Lucius. Even as he hated him, and that makes everything feel so bloody worse.

"Mother's a mess," he says, looking away. He'd firecalled her from the hotel when he'd calmed down enough. She'd been sobbing, and Aunt Dromeda had stepped in, talking to Draco gently, carefully, making certain he was all right, asking when he'd be home. She'd kept him sane, he thinks, she and Harry, who'd been sat beside him in the hotel's Floo room, holding Draco's hand tightly the entire time. 

"She just lost her husband." Pansy smoothes Draco's hair back from his cheek. "She has to be devastated." She drops her hand, looks at Draco. "Should I have Mother contact her? They're not the best of friends, but…" Pansy trails off, looking a bit uncertain. 

Draco catches her hand again, squeezes it. "I think that's a brill idea. Thank you."

Pansy nods. "I'll firecall her."

They're silent for a moment, all three of them, and then Draco hears the catch of the door lock, the squeak of the hinges as it opens. A moment later Harry's there in the doorway, watching them. He looks tired, Draco thinks. 

"Have you taken your potions?" Draco can't help but ask, and he bites his lip, thinking he sounds like a scolding mother.

But Harry just gives him a small smile. "I'm due for another dose of three of them soon," he says. "Are you all right?"

"No," Draco says, a bit surprised by his honesty. "I…" He breaks off, the grief welling up in him again, tightening his chest, closing off his throat, stinging his eyes. He tries to breathe through it. 

And then Harry brushes past Pansy and Blaise, and he wraps his good arm around Draco, letting Draco cling to him, not even complaining when Draco accidentally shifts against his bad shoulder, even though Draco can feel Harry wince beneath his touch. Draco presses his face into Harry's neck, listening to the soft sound of Harry's breath, to the murmur of Harry's voice as he speaks to Blaise and Pansy.

"Hermione will be looking after you lot," Harry's saying. "She'll get you back to London as soon as she can." His fingers card through Draco's hair; Draco inhales the smell of him, the powdery crispness of the Douro cologne that Draco had replaced for Harry after breaking his other bottle. "Draco and I'll be Portkeying out this evening. If you need anything, you can ring my mobile, but Hermione's your first line of defence, yeah?"

"Will do, guv," Blaise says, and Draco relaxes beneath Harry's touch. 

Pansy's hand brushes Draco's back. "We should let you finish packing," she says to Harry. "Unless Draco needs anything…" Her voice trails off. 

Draco shakes his head, still keeping his face pressed against Harry's shirt. 

"All right, love," Pansy says, and she leans over, kisses Draco's temple. "As soon as we get back I'll come by."

Draco nods. "Thanks," he says into Harry's shoulder. He knows she wants more from him, that's she's worried about him, but it's all he has to give right now. He twists his fingers in Harry's shirt and tries his best to just breathe. 

What does it say that he just wants to be with Harry, that he wishes his friends would go and leave him be now that Harry's back? He feels like an arsehole, but he can't help himself. Harry grounds him, keeps him from feeling as if he's going to shatter into a million tiny shards that can't be put back together again. 

He half-hears Harry saying something, then Blaise and Pansy answering. There's a moment's silence, and then the door closes, locking behind them, and Draco's clinging to Harry, his grief crashing over him once again. 

"I'm here," Harry whispers, and he strokes fingers through Draco's hair, calming him until Draco stops shaking, until the tears Draco doesn't even realise are falling finally slow, until Draco pulls away, shame settling heavy on his shoulders. 

"Merlin, I'm…" Draco makes a gesture with his hands, not certain what he's even saying. He swallows and turns away, walking out of the en suite and into the sitting room, flooded with afternoon light. He leans against the window sill, looking out at the now-familiar view of the East River and Brooklyn. 

Harry comes up behind him. He wraps one arm around Draco's waist, rests his chin against Draco's shoulder, holds him. 

Draco closes his eyes for a moment and lets himself feel the comfort that Harry's giving him. 

"I love you," Harry says quietly. "And I'm so sorry."

"I know." Draco's eyes flutter open. He settles a hand over Harry's. "It's just…" He breathes out. "Watching you get hurt. And now this…." He trails off, his throat aching. "I could have lost you too."

Harry's quiet, then he says, "But you didn't."

Draco just nods. He doesn't know how he would have survived if he had.

Below a ferry makes its way up the river, crisp and white against the dark blue water. 

"I don't want to leave," Draco says finally. "Is that horrible of me? Mother needs me, I know that, and I've my duty, but…" He bites his lip and leans back against Harry's chest. "London. It's going to be so different from here."

Harry breathes out next to Draco's ear. "How so?"

Draco doesn't know how to explain it. "I have to be a Malfoy again," he says after a moment. "Here, I was just Draco. No one knew me. No one had expectations based on my name." He watches the traffic as it moves along the Brooklyn Bridge in the distance, a shining, bright flow of cars across the brown stones and thick wires. 

"You'll always be Draco to me," Harry says. His fingers slide through Draco's, holding them tight. 

"I'm glad." Draco looks at their faint reflections in the window, at the hint of blond hair and dark curls, the glint of sunlight hitting Harry's glasses. "But still." He doesn't want to take his past on again, to be wrapped in the mantle of the Malfoy name, to face what he's done, what his father's done. To be caught by his own foolish idiocy. "We could run away," he says with a small smile at the thought. "You and I. Disappear into the City like mad, foolish lovers. No one would know." No one would care, he wants to say, but he knows that's not true. Harry would be missed, at least. 

Harry's silent for a moment, then he says, "I tried. In Luxembourg. It didn't work the way I'd thought it might."

"I suppose not." Draco's wistful, though. He pulls Harry's hand up, kisses it, then lets their twined hands settle back on his stomach. "But it'd be nice."

"Yeah." Harry holds Draco tighter, his face tucked against Draco's hair, his immobilised arm pressed against Draco's back. "I promise you," he whispers, "that whatever happens, whatever we face in London, I'll be there beside you. Because I do love you, Draco Malfoy. More than I've ever loved anyone. And I won't let them hurt you. I'll destroy the whole fucking Ministry before I let that happen." His voice is fierce. Furious. 

Draco turns his head, catches Harry's mouth with his. The kiss is slow, bittersweet, and when their lips break apart, both of them are breathless. Draco says, "You own my heart, Harry. Wherever we are. It's yours."

They stand silently together, wrapped in each other's arms, looking out at New York spread beneath them. 

Draco's not ready to go home. 

He doesn't think he ever will be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, you can subscribe to this fic for chapter updates, or you can subscribe for series updates [here on AO3](http://archiveofourown.org/series/661862) or follow me [on tumblr at femmequixotic!](http://femmequixotic.tumblr.com).
> 
> THESE SECRETS IN ME is now complete! The next book in the series, Dare to Think, will start posting on Sunday, August 27.


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